Peter Parker (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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newyorknative2016-12-14 02:44 am
spideyguy) wrote in newyorknative2016-12-14 02:44 am
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He never ever saw it coming at all
It's about seven in the evening when Peter finally wanders down from his room to rustle up some food. May's working another double, like she has been for the past month and a half, leaving Peter alone for dinner. He doesn't fault her for it, far from it - he knows she still has trouble sleeping, without Ben next to her, and with Peter out all hours of the night. She's stopped grilling him about it, which only makes the worry he senses off of her worse. But they...don't talk about it. Whatever he's doing, it's obvious he's in a better place than he was, and as incredible as May is, there are only so many fires she can put out at one time. Peter pushes his glasses to the top of his head and rubs at the bridge of his nose, opening the fridge to gaze into it blearily. He's been alternating between quantum mechanics and making a few adjustments to his webshooters for the past couple of hours, and he's starting to feel it. It's a good thing, though - he's actually getting his homework done, and the shooters could use a tune-up anyway. They're currently sitting in pieces on his desk, the left one halfway reassembled.
Predictably, there's nothing in the fridge. Peter does a mental check to try and figure out the last time he went shopping - since that's his responsibility now - and...yeah, it's probably a bad sign that he can't remember, right? He grabs his hoodie and wallet off the couch and bounds out the door; quick trip to the grocery store around the block will set them up for the next few days, until he can make a full list and restock. It'll be nice, Peter thinks, for May to come home to fresh leftovers. He could make a casserole, maybe? Those aren't too difficult...probably.
Peter stuffs his earbuds into his ears and draws his hood against the crisp bite of Fall air, cranking the tunes just for the hell of it. He wonders if May has a recipe box anywhere - he could Google something, surely? He's not that bad of a cook, but not that great, either - nowhere near Harry's prowess but that was a hobby for his best friend. He could bake the hell out of a cake, though. Or brownies - ooh, he could make brownies for May. Make enough to take to the rest of the staff at the hospital, the girls she worked with - that would be nice. Peter smiles, a renewed spring in his step as he turns the corner for the store. Yeah, he thinks, May would really like tha-
The claw comes out of nowhere, with damn near zero warning. He'd been so wrapped up in his own thoughts, music blasting into his ears, Peter had pretty much been ignoring his spidey sense. He has just enough presence of mind to try to dodge, but all that manages is to keep him from being skewered on the sharp edges of the claw. It cuts through his hoodie, digging into his shoulder and probably drawing some superficial blood as he's hauled up into the air. Distantly, Peter can hear someone screaming, earbuds still pulsing into his ears. Otto is smiling at him, a crazed sort of delight that Peter wants to punch right off of him, saying something Peter can't quite make out with the music in his ears. He tries to move his arm, to grab the claw and tear it apart, to get out of the hold, but it makes the sharp edges dig into his skin and he cries out, kicking futilely.
That's about when Otto smashes him into something - God, Peter doesn't even know what it was, everything's moving in a painful blur - and he's out like a light.
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By the time Harry got home from the office, it's later than the usual five o' clock. He'd stayed behind for a couple hours to comb over some projects with the researchers assigned to them. It not only gave him a better idea of what was going on with the company, but it helped him bond a little with the people working for him. That was something half the board members - who generally only cared about the numbers - couldn't be bothered to do, so the gesture was met with some surprise and pleasantness. It went well, all things considered. Harry couldn't really keep up with the science talk, but he asked questions, and the researchers were more than happy to answer them. They tossed ideas and thoughts back and forth for a while, and on the whole, it was productive. He was feeling good.
Up until he saw a note pinned to the wall in his study.
Pinned in a spot that ensured it was the first thing Harry saw when he walked in, it took all of a second for Harry to know who it was from, even without stepping up to read it. But when he did, his blood ran cold. 'I have your friend Peter--' were the only words Harry needed to read before a wave a panic fell over him. The whole reason he'd decided to use his dad's tech was to keep this very thing from happening!
But it had.
What was he supposed to do? He wasn't ready for this! Going toe-to-toe with Octavius--... Harry improved by leaps and bounds thanks to Spider-Man's guidance, but Octavius wouldn't be holding back. He wouldn't stop when Harry exhausted himself or made a mistake.
Struggling to fill his lungs with air, Harry immediately thought of seeking out Spider-Man at his hideout. But-- there was no guarantee of him being there. And Harry didn't have time.
Peter was in trouble. He couldn't wait for anyone else to help him; it was too risky.
With trembling fingers, Harry took the note off the wall and read the rest. It was telling him where to go, where to find Octavius, and spelling out the consequences if he didn't come. It was a trap with Peter as the bait. That much was obvious, but Harry did have one thing on his side. Octavius didn't know that Harry had tech of his own to fight back with. It was a surprise Harry had been hoping to keep until he was ready, but as long as it was enough to help him secure Peter's safety, it didn't matter. He practically threw the latch to open the hidden passage behind the study's mirror, bolting through to get to his gear. He threw it on as quickly as he could, something that did not combine well with Harry's barely contained panic. He kept fumbling and dropping things, and after about the third time of his arm blades clattering to the floor, he let out a frustrated string of curses.
"God!" If it weren't for the fact that Harry probably needed them, he would have thrown them. "Just-- okay." He inhaled a deep breath, trying to swallow down the nausea and fear that kept bubbling up in his chest. "You can do this... Peter needs your help." He repeated that to himself until he didn't feel like he was going to vomit.
Gulping down another gasp of air, Harry finished suiting up, armed to the teeth with his various weaponry, and pulled the glider off its stand. In a matter of minutes, he was out the balcony doors and flying off towards an abandoned warehouse by the docks. Not exactly an ideal place to fight Octavius, but Harry would try to make it work. He had to, for Peter's sake.
He tried with all his might not to make any noise when he landed on the roof and crawled across to peer into one of the many fractured windows. Down below, he glimpsed Octavius seated at a metal table. Looked like he was working on something. King of arrogant of him, really. Harry couldn't piece together what he was woring on, but frankly, he didn't really care, because several feet away was Peter. He nearly smacked his forehead into the window trying to get a better look. It was hard to tell if Peter was hurt from where he was, but he could see that his arms and legs were bound up in chains.
Sparing another quick glance at Octavius, Harry resolved to try and sneak in. Maybe he could get in, grab Peter, and get out without having to fight. He had to try. Leaving the glider on autopilot outside, Harry slithered across the roof until he got to a broken window above a catwalk and wriggled his way inside. It was almost excruciating how slow and careful he had to be just to stay quiet, but he managed to work his way down without being seen or heard. As he neared Peter, he could see that his friend was blearily regaining consciousness. Mapped in bruises, the poor guy looked like hell and it lit a fire in Harry's chest that made him want to pummel Octavius's face in. He clenched his teeth behind his mask, grinding them together and biting back the flare of impulse. Peter's safety was more important than trying to smack Octavius around right now, so he held a gloved finger to where his lips would be as he quietly approached. 'Please don't make any noise.' Not that Peter had any reason to trust some random guy in a mask with a million blades on him (okay, only three, but still), but Harry hoped he wouldn't put up much of a fuss.
Crouching down, Harry took out the blade strapped to his thigh. All of his blades were strong enough to cut through steel, but this one was quieter and easier to maneuver. He set about removing the chains around Peter's legs, trying to saw through the metal as silently and carefully as possible. The chains soon crumpled to the ground, and - with a spark of hope - Harry started to move on to the ones wrapped around Peter's arms. It took about that long for his luck to run out, too. Apparently he wasn't the only one capable of being quiet, because within a second, Octavius was on them like a terror. Harry didn't even get a chance to react before he was being batted away like a fly by one of Octavius's tentacles. Launched into an empty metal shelf, the collision rang out with a resounding CLANG!, muffling Harry's cry.
"Peter, run!"
And suddenly, everything was happening all at once. Harry's glider burst in through the window, zooming down to meet Harry, while Octavius was determined not to let Peter get a chance to run. An orange orb shot out of one of the glider's many compartments once it was near enough, and Harry didn't even hesitate-- he threw it from where he was. The outer shell broke open, revealing a razor bat; he'd decided to keep a few of them after all, and it looked like they were going to be handy. It honed in on Octavius with a shrill whir, intent on colliding into him. It wouldn't do much, but it distracted him from Peter for a moment, and that's all Harry needed.
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Before Peter could do anything, however, Harry showed up, slinking out of the shadows. Peter had to bite back the impulse to say his name - both so that he wouldn't alert Otto, and wouldn't reveal to his friend that he knew it was his friend. Shit. Peter couldn't very well help with Harry there - what were they going to do? Luckily, Harry didn't seem too keen on direct confrontation, and Peter clenched his jaw, watching the slow approach. It made him nervous, this helplessness he had to fake, and in order to watch Harry, he had to give up on watching Otto. He seemed preoccupied enough - maybe they'd be able to just make a run for it, no fight needed.
No dice. One of the tentacles slapped Harry out of the way like it was nothing, and Peter squirmed in the chains still binding his arms. He couldn't very well try to break them with Harry right there - but maybe Peter Parker would be thin enough to slip out, if he could throw his legs high enough? Again, no dice, and Peter was only successful in bruising the crap out of his back as he wildly kicked out his legs, throwing himself down against the chair - which broke, beneath him, due to the force.
Otto didn't seem to be sure of where to turn his attention, but with Peter floundering on the floor, he ended up going after Harry. As he turned, the razor bat collided, forcing him back a pace or two. Peter skidded back on the floor, using his legs to propel him out from under Otto. He couldn't get far, limiting himself like this, but at least it was a little more distance.
"Harry, watch out!" Peter yelled, heels digging into the ground as Otto lashed out again with the tentacles, trying to catch Harry between the razor sharp claws. He felt his heart in his throat as the former scientist came from nearly every direction, one of the claws clipping the edge of the glider as he made another grab.
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The glider spun away from him after colliding with one of Octavius's actuators, and Harry had no choice but to try and rely on himself. He was a far cry from an acrobat, but Spider-Man had been insistent on Harry improving on his speed and reflexes in the event that he got separated from his glider. He was able to duck under one claw and trick another into stabbing into one of the metal supports of the warehouse, where it got stuck. As much as Harry would have loved to gloat his temporary success, he was too pumped up on adrenaline and fear. He immediately booked it past Octavius, who was howling in anger, to make the most of the opportunity to skid back over to Peter. He didn't waste any time trying to pick up where he left off, and was successful in sawing through one link of the chains wrapped around Peter's arms. He hoped that'd create enough slack for Peter to slither free, because Octavius wasn't wasting time either.
The support groaned and creaked before finally dying out with an awful screech of metal scraping against metal, and then Octavius was free, whirling around to face the two with a furious scowl. "We have to move! C'mon!" Harry cried, immediately dropping his small blade and using whatever strength he could muster to try and hoist Peter up to his feet.
He couldn't just let him keep floundering around on the floor like that. Octavius was unpredictable and had a notoriously foul temper; he might just hurt Peter because he was there and he could. When he heard Octavius closing in behind them, all Harry could think to do was propel Peter forward with a shove and put distance between them, with Harry wedged in the middle. He took a blow that had been aimed at Peter, the claws seizing him around his waist with force that he's sure would have cracked his ribs if not for his armor. As it was, they were both contracting painfully around his torso to the point that he could barely even make any noise-- it took the breath right out of him. Acting on impulse, Harry grabbed for the sword on his back, switched his grip, and took a blind stab behind him where he hoped the rest of the actuator would be. By some miracle, it struck and pierced its target, sending a debilitating charge of electricity up the arm and through Octavius's harness.
The actuator let go, but honestly-- Harry was lucky that it didn't do the opposite and tighten its grip in the midst of its fritzing out. It would have crushed him, easily. Harry wasn't about to think too hard on it, though. They had to get away. They had to. Harry wormed away from Octavius while the smart arms spasmed and Octavius himself thrashed around, trying to regain control. If they were lucky, the sword would cut off use to one of the arms, but the rest... It was probably just a distraction at best that would leave Octavius even angrier. There were multiple attempts on Harry's part to climb back to his feet, but each time, he wheezed and crumpled, surprised at how much strength that one strike had strangled out of him. Kind of had a way of making you appreciate the punishment superheroes went through on a regular basis.
All he cared about was getting to Peter and getting them both out of there, though. Whatever happened, whether he got hurt or lost half his gear... he'd deal with it. Peter was all that mattered. The sword could stay lodged in Octavius's arm for all he cared; there were others. But there was only one Peter Parker. Autopiloting over to the pair, the glider hovered passively nearby. "Are-- Are you okay?" Harry managed, hoping to get them both up and out of there before Octavius could recover.
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Righting himself, at least, Peter could help with. He dug his heels into the ground and used a little bit of strength to make Harry's pushing him up to his feet a little bit easier. The shove almost sends him off balance, chains clinking as he stumbles - but super reflexes didn't come without perks, so at least he didn't go down. Peter turns, horrified as he watches Harry in Octavius' clutches, hoisted high into the air. The next link of his chain cracks without him meaning to - just from the tension he's exerting. Peter hits that 'fuck it' moment and pauses, takes a deep breath, and breaks the rest of the chain. He can't bother to wonder if Harry heard that, as his chain falls into a pile on the floor, already in motion towards the fight.
But then Harry's sword was out, slicing into what appeared to be a very important component of Octavius' suit, and his friend was freed, albeit a little more worse for the wear than before. Only an iota of tension bled from Peter's shoulders, still worried as he watched Octavius get back to his feet from the electric shock at roughly the same pace as Harry. And Harry...god, he was so fragile, in comparison to those arms. He had his armor, which thank the heavens had taken most of the blow - but the strategy they'd been working on was to avoid getting into direct contact with those claws for as long as possible. Honestly, probably the only reason Peter was as whole as he was now was because of his enhanced biology. If he'd been regular ole' Peter Parker, getting tossed around with those things would have done a lot more damage.
"I'm fine." He probably didn't look it, but hey, he had the excuse of not knowing his mysterious savior from Adam, right? Peter reached out to try and help steady Harry, one arm behind his shoulders, the other on his upper chest. "Are you?" He has to swallow around the lump and make his tone as even as possible. If there's any shake to it, perhaps Harry will attribute it to stress from being kidnapped. Yeah. Sure.
They don't have much time to talk, though, because Octavius is getting back to his feet and he looks pissed. Peter follows Harry over to the glider, brow furrowed as they climb on top of it - he's just going to have to hold on to Harry, because his sentae can't grip through his shoes. It's much less stable, but he doesn't have a good reason to ditch his shoes, and Harry's definitely not battered enough that he won't notice.
"We need to move." Peter glances back over his shoulder, just to see an outstretched claw coming towards him. Dammit! He can't reach out to stop it, to punch it or try to catch it. Octavius' smile is a grim, twisted thing - he wants to kill him, to make Harry watch. That's what this setup was for, wasn't it? Ruin Harry, piece by piece. Why do all the supervillains go for the psychological games?
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Verbal confirmation that Peter was alright was all Harry needed for the time being. He looked beat to hell, but as long as he could move and talk... well, the rest they could deal with later, after they got out of this. If Peter could see under Harry's mask, he'd be getting a lazy grin that looked a lot more like a grimace right now. "Well... I'm really gonna be feeling this in the morning," was the only half-decent reply Harry could muster between ragged breaths. After all the adrenaline wore off, he'd be in a world of hurt-- that much he was sure of. You didn't get tossed around and squeezed like a rag doll without paying for it.
He's not too surprised that Peter offers to help him up-- he's a nice guy like that, you know? But hopping up on the glider with him, no questions asked? That's a little surprising. With the desperate situation they're in, though, Harry can't really fault him. Trust the guy who's trying to save you or stay on the ground with the glorified mad scientist? If Harry were in Peter's shoes, the choice would be pretty clear. Understandably, he sounds kind of rattled. He's probably as scared as Harry is right about now, and just as desperate to get the hell out of there. So, without questioning it, Harry wrapped an arm around Peter's waist to secure him.
"What we need is to get him to stop chasing us!" Harry could probably pilot them out of there, but Octavius would give chase. He was deceptively fast with those arms. If they wanted to make it out of this, they were going to have to distract the guy long enough for them to get out of the warehouse and lose him. Leave no trace of where they went. "Any ideas, Genius?"
After that... well-- Harrytried to speed off. By the time he saw the claw gunning for Peter, about all he could do was put the metaphorical pedal to the metal. They lurched forward with a burst of speed, but not enough to clear them of Octavius's grasp. The claw crashed into the lip of the glider, sending them somersaulting through the air with dizzying force. It was hard enough to correct it with just him on the glider, but with Peter there, too--
Like hell he was letting go, though. He tried his damnedest to keep Peter on the glider with him, because he knew the minute he fell, it'd be right into Octavius's waiting arms. He didn't want to think about the consequences of that. "Please hang on, Peter--!" It wasn't going to be a smooth ride by any stretch of the imagination, but he was pulling out every trick Spider-Man had taught him about controlling the glider - especially with extra weight onboard. By the time Harry gained some semblance of control back over the glider, Octavius was already on them again, trying to ensure that Harry couldn't acquire the stability he needed to get away, and Harry was already losing his grip on Peter.
He couldn't exactly stop to readjust them, so he just had to pray that Peter wouldn't fall while he was trying to maneuver around Octavius's claws. They needed a plan-- and fast.
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Lucky for Peter, he's not exactly going to have to rationalize anything, is he? Harry will either reveal himself or Peter won't have to answer any suspicious questions to a 'stranger'. That's about all he's got going for him right now - but yes, getting on the glider with Harry is definitely the better option. The arm around his waist gives him a weird sense of backwards deja vu - he's not usually the one being carried off, away from danger.
"I don't know!" He couldn't do anything that would give him away, and besides, he didn't even have his webs. So besides letting Peter physically rip apart the metal arms with his bare hands, what could he do? Nothing. Think, Peter. Harry was the one who could do something - what did Harry have? Peter wracked his brain, trying to remember all the weapons Harry had on his person. He's pretty sure Harry has been hiding some of them from Spiderman, too. That about when he notices where they are, the run down warehouse, and spots the support beams above them. Above Octavius. If they could blow those, maybe, make the structure collapse, that would give them some time to put distance between them and the nutcase -
Peter's opening his mouth to suggest as much when the claw collides with the glider and Peter hangs onto Harry with everything he's got, sentae gripping the armored chestplate. He could feel his feet flail a little before settling back onto the glider - he's got no purchase, no way to hold on except to Harry, with his arms. Fuck.
Octavius looked like he was enjoying the hell out of himself. It was almost as though he was toying with them, swiping at them from one direction and then the other, making Harry jerk and swerve to try and get out from under him. It wasn't making Peter hanging on any easier, even as he clung on tighter when he felt Harry's grip loosening a little. Oh god, please don't drop him. Peter could do without getting impaled on an octopus claw, thanks.
"The - the supports," Peter manages, yelping a little when Octavius' claw swipes way too close for comfort, nearly getting his shoulder. "Blow the place. Do you have anything - ?"
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The lack of any ideas isn't exactly encouraging, but it's a little hard to blame Peter when they're in as dicey of a situation as they are. Forming a plan under normal circumstances is enough of a challenge sometimes. Right now, Harry's just doing his best to think on the fly and stay ahead of Octavius. It seems like he hasn't been the only one practicing with his gear either, 'cause he's pretty sure Octavius wasn't nearly this coordinated or agile with his smart arms before.
An unsettling thought, honestly.
Where Harry thought he'd have an edge, Octavius just keeps finding new ways to cut him off. Now's not really a good time to dwell on it, though. By whatever miracle, Peter's managed to hang on through the rickety spirals and maneuvers Harry's had to pull to stay away from the eight-limbed lunatic. (Nevermind that - for a minute there - it felt like his chest armor was gearing to rip off when Peter latched on, but Harry's about eighty percent sure he was imagining it.) It'd be better if he could actually hold on to Peter rather than just looping an arm around his waist, but it'd be a lot harder to balance that way and he's not real keen on nose-diving onto the cold warehouse floor again.
But thank you, Peter Parker, for always coming through in the end.
He mentions the supports and Harry only has to spare a glance up to see what he means. Does he have anything? Probably nothing he's supposed to. He'd waffled around for a while on whether or not he should carry around his dad's pumpkin bombs. They were a tool of destruction and chaos. What good could come from that?
Well, this time, it turned out to be a lot.
Only trouble was, Harry doesn't have the greatest aim - which is only exacerbated by the erratic movements he's being forced to make - and he hasn't had a chance to test out the bombs. They didn't really have a choice, though. Either he makes a move, or he loses Peter to the psycho chasing them. Needless to say, he'd rather take his chances with the first one.
"Hang on!"
It's all about hunting for an opportunity; he needs a good shot at the supports without Octavius' arms in the way or he wastes his chance. Harry takes a risk and tilts the glider almost straight up, kicking into overdrive enough to give him a clear shot at the ceiling. There's a press of a switch, then Harry's free hand is outstretched, catching an orb that shoots out of another hidden compartment on the glider. He doesn't hesitate to chuck it up at the supports, just as he doesn't hesitate to call another into his grasp and send that one flying to a different section while he has the chance. The aim's not perfect, but it's good enough. They erupt in a massive explosion, almost immediately caving the metal in on itself.
Debris soon follows, raining down on Harry, Peter, and Octavius indiscriminately. It's almost satisfying to hear Octavius' furious yelling somewhere behind them, but Harry doesn't have the luxury of slowing down to enjoy it. He takes what small chance he has to readjust his grip on Peter, making sure he's holding on tight when he does a complete 180 and essentially lets them fall out of the air, nosediving straight back down. It's a race to get out from under the bigger chunks of debris before it can pin them, and Harry's stomach - he's pretty sure - beats them all to the ground for as hard as it dropped. He pulls up at the last second, zooming past a chunk of metal that crashes into the warehouse floor seconds afterword. As agile as Octavius is, he can't outrun the glider and he can't quite outrun the warehouse caving in around him. Harry hears a loud thunk and all he can do is pray that it's Octavius getting his head and that stupid harness bashed in.
He doesn't dare look back; he's barreling straight for the open window and they're getting the hell out of there. Either way, he doesn't stop until they'd sped several miles away and the adrenaline is starting to wear off. He's pretty sure he got conked on the head by some debris pulling that stunt, the way his head is suddenly starting to sting and throb, but he hadn't exactly been at liberty to slow down long enough for it to register. Right now, he's more worried about Peter anyway. The poor guy looks like hell, and he feels awful about it. This whole thing is his fault, after all...
There's no real rhyme or reason to the rooftop Harry chooses, he just needs to stop for a while and drops down onto the nearest one. "Are... Are you okay? For real, this time?" he finally rasps, exhausted, but still taking great care to help Peter off the glider. Last thing he needs is for that giant nerd to go and faceplant off the damn thing; he looks like he's already got enough aches and pains to deal with.
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That train of thought is cut off by Harry shooting them straight up at the ceiling, and Peter's pretty sure his stomach is gone forever, lost somewhere behind them. He can feel his fingers starting to make little indents in Harry's armor and he struggles to relax them and remain confident in the sentae to keep him on board.
The explosion makes his spidey sense clang around gratingly at the back of his head, like he didn't know there were explosions above him thanks for nothing. Peter's definitely not used to feeling useless, something that's only exacerbated by the fact that there's nothing he can do to help Harry go faster, to get them the hell out of there. They get dangerously close to the floor on the way down, and Peter - well, he closes his eyes for a brief second just to catch his breath and fight around the anxiety his spidey sense is only enabling, while the warehouse crashes down around them.
It's probably why he doesn't see the debris that's coming straight for Harry (his sense only works that well when something's aimed at himself), so he can't warn him - and he also can't get out of the way of the chunk that rolls off Harry's helmet and smacks right into his temple. Peter's definitely had worse, but seeing as he was already dizzy he very nearly loses his grip.
It won't help his visage, either, bleeding from his hairline. Great. The fresh air, wind whipping past their faces, is enough to help Peter unscramble his brain at least a little, so by the time they land on a rooftop Peter can tell Harry is flagging. He's also trying to figure out what the appropriate response to a masked stranger saving him is - a masked stranger wearing a Goblin suit, who he isn't supposed to know is Harry without giving away that he does know - it's just making his head throb, honestly. Also, Peter is well aware of what a terrible fucking liar he is, so...yeah, good luck with that one.
"Are you?" Peter asks, instead of answering, shakily stepping down from the glider. The slight exaggeration is for Harry's benefit - Peter Parker doesn't have super healing that'll have him fixed in less than an hour.
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Now that the last of bursts of adrenaline are leaving him, everything else is rushing to catch up, and he just kind of wobbles there for a minute, trying to wrap his head around what to say. A dull fire is heating up in his ribs where Octavius nearly crushed him, and his back aches, his skull, his legs... It's not gonna get any better, and he knows he should probably fly Peter home while he's still feeling semi-decent, but...
He can't will his legs to move anymore. He just wants to sink to the solid surface of the roof and lay there.
But he drags his hazy mind back into focus on Peter, and it's about then that he notices the blood running down Peter's forehead. That wasn't there before, was it? Did that stunt of his get Peter hurt? "Peter, you're bleeding," he points out, his voice strained with weariness and concern. He's completely forgotten to answer Peter's question. He's also completely forgotten that he's covered in gear and that he still hasn't explained who he is or why he's helping him, because he's pulling some meager first aid supplies he kept in a pouch on his belt, reaching for Peter like the comfortable friends they are.
Honestly, they should probably get Peter to a hospital, but he can at least stop the bleeding for now. Until Harry knows he can get back on that glider without teetering back off.
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"Yeah, I noticed." Peter takes his glasses off, carefully discarding them on the rooftop. No reason to get glass in his eye when the other lens inevitably shatters entirely. "Tends to happen when a crazy octopus dude kidnaps you on your way to buy eggs." So much for the brownies. He's also still friggen' hungry, so healing is going to be fun.
Peter swallows, hesitating for a second before he barrels on, because he should definitely be having some sort of reaction to this, right? "I don't know who you are, or what you want, but I just want to say upfront that I am not in the mood to be kidnapped twice in one night." There, that sounds convincing enough, right?
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It takes a painfully long second for Harry to even register why Peter is withdrawing from him in the first place, making weird comments and talking to him like he's a stranger, and then-- His hand goes up to his face, which is greeted with the smooth, unyielding surface of his mask and not his skin.
Oh. That would be why.
Because Harry's still in disguise, and he never did get around to telling Peter about this. He already feels guilty about that, and prolonging it further would only make it worse. Now's as good a time as any. In fact, Harry might argue that it's the perfect time, because Peter's probably too exhausted and frazzled to strangle him for being stupid and reckless. Question is... how does he tell him? That's kind of a big subject to broach. What's he supposed to say? 'Hey, buddy! I had this great idea to steal a bunch of my dad's stuff and use it to fight Octavius! Oh yeah, and Spider-Man's been helping me!' Yeah, that'd be swell.
"What if it's a good kind of kidnapping?" Sure, Harry. That's an even greater way to start. He tries to press his hand to his face - as if to pinch the bridge of his nose in self-exasperation - except the mask is still there and he only ends up thunking his hand against the visor, knocking his head back a bit in a weary fluster. "Geez--! Uh-- alright, no. Okay, I can answer both of those questions! I'm not a psycho, alright? But before I say anything else, I just wanna preface this with: I swear I meant to tell you sooner, so please don't get mad at me--" Because that's the major concern here.
Nevertheless, the answer to those questions presents itself when Harry lets the mask retract into the rest of his suit, revealing his tired face before he can think too much about it to chicken out.
"Sur...prise?"
Little does he know, it's not a surprise at all.
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Jesus Harry. Peter has to scrub a hand over his face to hide his smile when Harry clumsily tries to get the helmet off and only ends up running into his visor. "Yeah, because that's comforting, Mr. I'm-gonna-kidnap-you-but-don't-worry-you'll-like-it." He can see that Harry is going to reveal himself and Peter has about three seconds to figure out how he's going to fake surprise. He eventually just decides on tossing his head back in a mock-sigh, which sounds pretty damn good considering he's actually kind of tired. He hopes it comes across as irritated, but not too mad, because honestly, the guilt ball in the pit of his stomach is doing a number on him right now. Harry, who's been at this for less than a month, coming clean in a way Peter should have done a looong time ago.
"Jesus, Harry," Peter stretches it out and presses the palms of his hands into his eyes to keep from looking at Harry and revealing just how bad of an actor he really was. "Shoulda guessed."
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But, well-- at least Peter doesn't seem too pissed off that it's his friend's face under the mask. Frustrated? ...Probably. It was an awfully risky stunt that Harry just pulled. He'd be pretty mad if he found out Peter was putting his neck on the line in some over-the-top costume, too. But, y'know. Even Peter Parker would never be that dumb, would he?
Harry manages a weary sheepish smile for Peter. "Am I that predictable?" The smile fades a little, looking more grim. "Look-- I know it's stupid, but... No one was gonna help us, Pete. So I decided to help us, and I really did mean to tell you sooner. But I-- I knew you'd probably try to talk me out of it, and I wanted to make sure I could really do this before I said anything." That way, Peter wouldn't worry as much about Harry going toe-to-toe with an angry scientist with eight arms. (That's how it worked out in Harry's head, anyway). "But, um. It actually... kinda worked out? I met Spider-Man, and he offered to help us out. Even helped me train with my gear and stuff. It was pretty cool actually, aside from the dent he tried to punch into my face when he first found me--" He's getting sidetracked. "Anyway--" He starts to twist his torso around, arm outstretched to gesture to his glider, but...
Bad move.
Whatever Harry was going to say next is promptly lost to oblivion.
All it takes is that one wrong twist for the dull pain in Harry's ribs to erupt into a white hot fire. It feels almost fresh, like Octavius's claws are crushing him all over again. A strangled sound sticks harshly to his throat - something between a shrill cry and a gasp - as he's sent to his knees, arms instinctively cradling his middle. He hazily wonders if Octavius managed to break his ribs. His armor was never designed to take heavy blows. It protected him, yes, but a glance down quickly tells him that Octavius dented the thin armor, where it's now digging into his sides. It's possible the armor cut into him and his ribs aren't broken at all-- he doesn't know. All he knows is that it fucking hurts and he needs to get the outer layer off.
He tries to ask Peter for help removing the armor, but that spike of pain snatched all the breath out of his lungs and he's just gasping for a decent gulp of air. All he can do is wait for the worst of the pain to ebb back into something more manageable.
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...see, this might have even worked in Peter's favor if Harry hadn't met Spiderman. So when the time eventually came - and it would, it always did, Peter liked to pretend he could sustain the lie forever but honestly - that he revealed himself to Harry, he'd look back on this and have a genuine reaction from Peter. But he couldn't, he'd know that Peter already knew, and if we're being honest - if Peter wasn't made out to be a hypocrite by getting mad, he'd probably be half a mile down a rant by now.
"You have no idea." It's half a grumble, half a joke to himself. "Of course I'd try to talk you out of it, Harry. I probably still will. You're - you're human, Harry. You're fragile, you're going up against God-knows-what with only some advanced armor and weaponry to protect you, but your skin is still skin." Harry's in denial if he thinks Peter isn't still going to worry about him anyway. "...that's good." Hopefully Harry won't notice how he's trying and failing to act like that's surprising. But then, given how much crossover there is between Peter Parker and Spiderman, maybe it's okay if he's not too surprised. "I mean, we are on his turf. He was bound to notice you flying around in...repurposed Goblin machinery." Peter's careful to not let that sound like a jibe, because it isn't one. The first time he'd seen it, though - he can still remember how angry he was, thinking that it was some stupid copycat.
"Harry? Harry!" Peter lunges for him when he collapses, hands flying to Harry's shoulders to help slow his descent. "Oh jesus, you're hurt. Oh my god." One hand flutters uselessly while the other steadies, not knowing where to touch not to hurt Harry. He's not even sure what's wrong, but his scalp is tingling, still ringing, heightened from the fight combined with lingering nerves. "Harry, Harry breathe." After a split second of hesitation, Peter takes a deep breath and tries to lay Harry out, on his back. Maybe if he's flat, it'll help with whatever's wrong.
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"But I did fine!" Harry argues, his voice almost an indignant whine, as though his body isn't completely battered from the few hits he did take-- as though he won't be collapsing in agony a few seconds from now. And perhaps that's part of the problem: that Harry's always so eager to prove himself. To show everyone that he's not just a hopeless screw-up. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't encouraged by the chance to - for once in his life - take matters into his own hands and make things right.
And Harry's just as careful not to comment on it. He'd tried so hard to make the suit, the glider, all of it look as different as possible from his dad's. In the end, it didn't really matter much. The connection was still there. You can dress it up, give it a total makeover, but it's still Goblin gear. Maybe Harry'd been naive about that, too. That he could make it into his own thing, into a positive thing. He dodges Peter's gaze, even knowing he didn't mean anything bad by it. If anything, Harry's only frustrated with himself.
Peter's voice weaves in and out of clarity once Harry starts crumpling-- nothing he can really make out with any certainty. Just jumbled words that sound worried, then supportive hands on his shoulders. He has just enough awareness to try not to go crashing into Peter. That's the last thing either of them need. After a moment, he can hear Peter telling him to breathe, and he's trying, but jesus--
There's no fragment of memory Harry can recall where he's experienced pain this bad before, and it's alarming just how debilitating it is. After a moment, he forces a sharp inhale, but it doesn't feel like it helps much when it begets a coughing fit. Peter gets him partway to a lying position before he's forced to turn himself to the side some, watching blood pool out of his mouth onto the rooftop. That's all the confirmation Harry needs to know that Octavius did more than cut his armor up; the shock keeps him from freaking out, at least. More than anything, he's trying real hard not to look at Peter, who's probably going to like that revelation even less.
He doesn't want to see the look Peter's giving him, whether it's angry or scared-- it doesn't matter. Either way, there's a steady wave of guilt bubbling over him for giving the guy yet someone else to worry about. This is the exact opposite of what he wanted to accomplish.
Not like he can do a whole lot about that now. There's no adrenaline to dull the pain anymore, and Harry can't do much beyond lay there paralyzed in shock and agony for a minute. All he wants is for the pain to stop! It takes some time for him to gather enough strength to grasp at his chest armor, struggling to pull it open; his fingers only fumble with the hidden zippers and contorted fragments of disguised armor. He has no choice but to shoot Peter a look-- helplessness, frustration, hurt, and fear somehow mingling into one expression.
You can yell at him as much as you want later, Peter, just... for the love of God, get this armor off of him.
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"But what if you didn't?" It's not accusatory, but quiet, and yeah, maybe a little scared. Yes, Harry has armor and he did incredibly well on the glider - but one direct hit from one of those tentacles at the right point in said armor, and Harry was a shish kabob. "Fine is great, Harry. Until it isn't."
Peter doesn't push the Goblin issue. Harry knows, he knows, and there's nothing, really, to do about it. It's evident, at least, that Peter isn't upset by it - and maybe it could be turned into something good. But that would take time, and far too much danger, in Peter's opinion. "This is above our paygrade, that's all I'm saying."
"Harry, come on!" He can't watch anyone else bleed out on the pavement. Peter just doesn't have it in him. Again and again and again. The panic threatens to choke him when he sees the blood in Harry's mouth, and Peter's knuckles creak from how tight his fist is. He doesn't know what to do - he can't even tell what's wrong, but Harry's heartbeat is fluttering in his ears and Peter is going to freak out if he can't dig the basic first aid out of his memory-
"Please." It's a quiet, breathless word, and Peter consciously uncurls his fist, hands fluttering over Harry's chestplate. Will taking it off make it worse? What if he's bleeding underneath, and taking off the armor unbinds the wound? Doesn't the blood come out faster if-?
In the end, Harry makes the decision for him, fingers fumbling uselessly against the zipper under the seam, and Peter takes over, ripping the teeth apart with his thumb and forefinger. The tension releases, and Peter can feel a piece of jagged edge against his hand. His eyes lock on Harry's and he looks away quickly - Harry's fear is cloyingly thick, and the air feels like it's getting thinner.
He can't look at Harry's face as he pulls the armor completely free, so instead he looks at the wound. Neither option is great, because for however long he's been bleeding, Harry has soaked through the majority of his stomach area and it's only ramping the panic higher. Peter tosses the armor aside with force, sparing half a second to pull off his hoodie and t-shirt. The t-shirt goes on the wound, pressure applied, and god, he hopes there's nothing left inside the wound.
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"It's all we have," Harry insists, just as quietly as Peter but with a tinge of anger and bitterness. Spider-Man offered his help, yes, but they can't just rely solely on him. He's still a stranger, and it's not like there's a Spidey Hotline for him to call (or so he thinks) whenever they're in trouble. "I'm not gonna stand by when I could be doing something... Not this time, Peter."
Peter can't bear to lose anyone else... but neither can Harry.
The release of pressure around Harry's ribs is an immediate relief, easing up on the odd angle in which they'd been crunched together. Still mind-bogglingly painful, however-- especially when Harry can feel the bones shift. He has enough willpower to bite back a scream, but not enough to can a steady stream of profanities. Vision white, Harry can't even focus on Peter's face and, in defeat, lets his head lull back against the rooftop.
Still conscious and fighting to remain that way, Harry opts to narrow his focus on breathing. Shallow and strained as his breaths are, he does eventually succeed at keeping them even.
If the panic ebbs away enough for Peter to take a proper look at the wound, he might be relieved to find that it's - for the most part - superficial. The cut itself is long and jagged but not deep, and the volume of blood is thankfully deceptive. More concerning is the surrounding area, already red and swelling-- the promise of a smattering of ugly bruises to come.
"My--" A short gasp jolts Harry's words to a stop. Talking is so much harder than breathing, good god... "I think... my ribs are broken, Pete..."
After being nearly crushed by Octavius' claws and battered several times, it would surprise him if they weren't. And... it would explain why he's coughing up blood. A single errant rib could collapse a lung. Not that Harry is coherent enough to tie all this together in any eloquent sense at the moment, but it's a nebulous sort of epiphany. In either case, they both need to get to the hospital. That much, Harry has made up his mind on. Peter might not have broken ribs, but there's no telling what kind of injuries he sustained from his own beating. He's not willing to take the chance that Peter's not suffering from something severe himself. Only problem is... how the hell are they supposed to get there? And what's Harry supposed to do, hobble around in his boxers? He certainly can't just mosey into the hospital in full gear.
Damnit...
"I need..." Ow, ow, fucking christ, ow. "I need to get us both to the--" Harry stops to inhale a very slow, very careful breath. "--hospital."
Judging by Harry's movements, he's gearing himself to get up. Or... trying to. It's not really panning out for him, and he ends up just flopping his hand over one of Peter's, as if to assess the damage for himself. He can feel a lot of blood; his heart drops. "Is-- Is it bad...?" He can barely lift his head to look at the gash on his stomach when it feels like every motion he makes just pisses his ribs off.
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"It - " Peter bites his tongue so hard he feels like he can taste iron. He can't say it, can't say why that isn't all they have, he can't - Jesus, he can't do this with Harry. Not now, maybe not ever. Peter's dug his hole and all he really knows is how to keep digging he can't - fuck, he can't do this. "I'm not saying you should stand by but - "
He doesn't have a good reason (but maybe the blood ruining Peter's shirt fills in his blank well enough).
Harry's still conscious enough to swear, which Peter is going to take as a good thing because it beats the alternative. He's panicking and he knows it, and maybe he puts in just a little bit of his super strength, trying to staunch the bleeding.
Fuck, he's had this kind of wound before (and broken ribs, to boot), so Peter knows the kind of pain Harry must be in, and his friend can't heal the way he can. Peter tries to calm himself, listening to Harry's thrumming heartbeat - listening for a punctured lung, as he tries to catalogue his friends injuries in the hopes that it'll help stave off the panic.
"Yeah, they are." Peter takes a deep breath and lets it back out, trying to focus. Harry's ribs are grinding against each other and his heartbeat is fluttering wildly, blood pumping between Peter's fingers (don't think about it don't think about it don'tthinkaboutit), but his lungs sound like they're working alright for now, so Peter's going to take that as a comfort.
What the hell use was Harry's armor, then? Not the time to think about it...
Peter's torn, shooting Harry an incredulous look but - ugh, shit, it would be absolutely bizarre if he didn't insist on Harry going to a hospital, and probably extremely fucking dangerous because Harry doesn't heal the way Peter does, he can't just not go to a hospital. But Peter's also been avoiding them like the goddamn plague, and Harry's still in his Goblin suit -
This is giving him a headache, in part from narrowly avoiding a panic attack. Peter takes one hand off of Harry's wound (the other pressing down extra firm to make up for the loss of pressure), and uses it to pin Harry to the roof by his shoulder, strength be damned. "I need you to stop moving and just - fuck, Harry! Yes, it's bad."
Peter squeezes his eyes shut for a second, taking another deep breath. Fucking think, Parker. "I don't need a hospital, but you do. Badly. But you - you're in this suit, and we're on a roof and you cannot move, okay, that's non-negotiable I can't - fuck, dude. Fuck."
Eloquently put. Peter wracks his brain, trying to find the answer. What the hell can they do?
(Peter hasn't felt this out of control since - )
"Phone." Peter mutters to himself, taking his hand off Harry's shoulder to pat his own pockets. Was Otto dumb enough to leave Peter his phone?
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Whatever internal struggle is raging through Peter at that moment is lost on Harry, and Peter's seeming lack of a good argument is enough to swell Harry's frustration further. He doesn't hesitate to cut him off, the intensity in his voice boiling enough not to leave much of an argument: "But nothing. I'll do what I have to do, Peter."
Honestly, Harry'd be more upset about Peter and the fact that he looks like he's about to have a panic attack right then and there if he had the wherewithal. But his vision is growing woozier, and he can barely keep his eyes focused on Peter much less find the strength to be upset. There's just... a lot of pain, too much, and Harry keeps teetering between managing alright and wanting to throw up. He's not a vigilante, he's never been banged up in actual combat before. He skipped the training wheels and - hell, the whole bike entirely - and tried to jump straight to a motorcycle and... as one might expect, he's paying for it now.
Most of Peter's confirmation on his ribs slips right through his ears, as if Harry really needed it. The pain alone says it well enough. Later, when he can actually function, he'll no doubt be trying to figure out how to improve the armor. Secretly, because he's not stupid enough to think Peter won't flip out and try to stop him from continuing this pursuit of Octavius. But he's doing this for them both; he has to. Spider-Man might've been willing to help him train, but they couldn't rely on him being there all the time.
"But--" Thump, Harry's pathetic attempt to get back to his feet fails and he's vaguely aware of being pinned down, but mostly? "Ow!" Not really Peter's fault, it's all Harry's squirming around; he knows moving around is making the pain exponentially worse but he's nothing if not stubborn.
It's the frenetic quality of Peter's voice, however, that actually gets him to listen. He wants to argue that, no, you do need a hospital, Peter... but even in his bleary-minded state he knows better than to pick a fight with an on-the-verge-of-utter-panic Peter. Guiltily, he tries to lay his hand on Peter's, which has been diligently putting pressure on his wound. He wants to say sorry, but the words stay stuck in his throat and he doesn't even have enough to strength to squeeze. Each wave of pain just keeps taking more and more out of him.
But he hears Peter mutter something about a phone and - not realizing he's looking for his own - Harry ends up lazily trying to gesture to one of the pouches on his leg. "Phone," he repeats, waving his hand pitifully. Octavius has always been a thorough strategist if nothing else, so the odds were slim, but if Peter's search comes up empty, he's welcome to Harry's hopefully-not-busted phone.
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"Please stop." Harry's intense, but Peter's desperation leaks through into his voice, too, and add that to the pile of Things He Can't Deal With Right Now. They can't have this argument when Harry is going to bleed out on a rooftop. God, Peter feels like he's losing his damn mind. How did things spin this out of control so fast? When did his life become a lincoln log house and start falling down around him?
If Harry starts keeping him completely out of the loop, Peter is only going to freak out harder, feel more guilty. Because what if he could have helped? What if he could have helped, but he didn't know, and then Harry ends up even worse off than he is right now -
Okay. First things first. Now's not the time to lose it, Parker. (He needs to stop crouching over the bodies of people he loves don't think about it don'tfuckingthinkaboutit)
"Please," Peter says when Harry touches his arm, and he doesn't know what he's asking for (is he asking Harry, or God, at this point?). The lump in his throat sits hot and uncomfortably heavy, and Peter just shakes his head quickly. Just...yeah. He doesn't know what he's asking for, but maybe Harry can just - focus on staying alive, okay?
Peter glances quickly from Harry's face to his pocket, and back up. He's not sure whether or not he knows Claire's number by heart, but hell, it's worth a shot. He dips down to pluck the phone from Harry's pocket, fingers hesitating only a moment before he started plugging in the number.
"Please work," Peter mutters, trying to trust his gut, but the roiling panic really isn't fucking helping his confidence levels right now. Still, it's ringing, so that's a start. "Come on, pick up."
"Hello?"
"Claire! Hi, okay - look this is, uh, Peter. I need your help. I've got a new friend for you to meet, and he's...in pretty bad shape."
The sigh on the other end of the line is tired and long-suffering, but Peter knows Claire will help anyway. She's good people that way. "How bad?"
"Lots of blood," Peter swallows, trying to stop the panic edging into his voice. "Ribs are definitely busted. I don't want to move him."
"Dumpster or rooftop?"
Peter chokes on a laugh, offering Harry a reassuring smile he doesn't really feel. "Rooftop. I think we're across the street from the Salty Dog."
"Keep him conscious. I'll be there soon."
"Thank you." The honesty of the statement knocks the breath out of his lungs, and Claire hangs up swiftly - she doesn't bullshit, that way. Help is on the way, and Peter exhales slowly, feeling at least a little bit better than he did a minute ago.
"Don't move, okay?" Peter repeats, setting down the phone and letting his hand come back up to rest on Harry's shoulder again - though this time it's not restraining, it's meant more to be comforting. He doesn't really have a plan for how to explain Claire to Harry - or how the hell to explain Harry to Claire, without compromising his identity - but what was his life if not flying by the seat of his pants at all times? "I've uh - got someone coming."
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But then... he won't really be out of the loop, will he? Not with Spider-Man on Harry's side.
Peter's cracking, Harry can see it in his eyes and the way his mouth trembles as he tries to stay calm, and he feels awful for putting Peter through this. He thought he was saving his best friend, but really, his best friend's saving him. Again. It's always been that way-- from his perspective, at least.
Because... Harry can never quite do anything right, can he? Always a disappointment, he can hear his father's voice callously say in the back of his mind.
And if Harry were more coherent, he'd be terribly suspicious of that phone call. Fortunately for Peter, he's too busy fighting through waves of pain to really pay a lot of attention to what his friend's saying over the phone. Something about someone named Claire and lots of blood and being on a rooftop-- whatever. He doesn't really care. Each time he thinks he's finally getting used to it, a fresh onslaught of pain stabs through his ribs, his abdomen, his back. He's been fairly calm through all this - thanks to the shock, mostly - but it's really starting to dawn on him what kind of shape he's in. He squirms in his discomfort and paralyzing fright, a tear dribbling down the side of his face as Peter talks to this person.
Peter's hand is on his shoulder again, squeezing gently. Kindly. Help's coming.
"Good--"
Harry's trying to be relieved, but his too-late epiphany is hitting him hard. A ragged breath clamors noisily in his broken rib cage.
"I'm tired, Pete..."
And he doesn't just mean physically-- his mind is tired, his heart is tired, his soul is tired. It suddenly feels like too much. Five years ago, Harry thought he'd be living a good life after high school. He imagined a happier life. He imagined living in an apartment with Peter while they both went to college, and instead Peter lost two of the people he loved the most. He imagined showing his dad that art really is worth something, and instead his dad went insane. He imagined making delicious food for Thanksgiving with May... and instead he's laying on a rooftop, terrified that he's going to die because a madman has been trying to murder him and his best friend.
A sharp inhale jabs through Harry's throat, just as sudden as the sob that breaks free from his chest in spite of the pain he's wracked with in doing so. His fingers clutch uselessly at Peter's arm. "We-- We were supposed to be happy..."
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"Hey, hey, hey," Peter says frantically, when Harry's quiet suffering becomes more overt, when it's not just the one pained tear but quickened breathing that has to hurt, no doubt, with his ribs. "Don't fall asleep, okay? Don't fall asleep on me, Harry, please."
But Harry's not falling asleep, Peter realizes, as his friend begins to panic a little - well, he thinks it's panic, or shock, or something Peter's not a doctor, okay, but he knows enough to recognize when someone is at the end of their rope. He's been there enough that he knows. The hand on Harry's shoulder moves automatically into his hair, petting through the curls soothingly. "Hey, Harry, shh, hey, it's okay - it's okay -"
"We are happy," Peter feels a sense of calm that previously eluded up, and he grasps at it, drapes it over his shoulders. It's easier to numb his own freakout when Harry is having one, and there's a part of Peter that's mildly grateful for it. He pets through Harry's hair with one hand, and keeps pressure on the wound with his other. "Everything...everything that happened sucks, okay? And I...wasn't happy, man, I wasn't but you - you came back into my life, after everything. It's not perfect, Har, but we're together, aren't we?"
It's true. It's so incredibly true. That day Harry showed up, out of the blue? Dragged him right out of his depressive funk with barely a thought. And a little bit of the pain eased - not all of it, but it was like this invisible weight he'd been carrying around had lifted. He hadn't realized just how much he'd missed his best friend, in the wake of all that destruction, until he turned back up.
Peter leans down to kiss Harry's forehead, letting his thumb move to swipe away some of the tears. "It's not fair, Har, but we're okay. We're okay."
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It's hard not to crave a little quiet oblivion when Harry's physically and emotionally wrecked. He just wants the pain to stop-- all of it. Peter's fingers are in his hair, brushing through his wayward curls, and he hushes him gently and whispers kindness and love in the way only someone who's been through tireless heartache can. Something in Harry breaks open just then-- and he's not sure what. Sadness? Joy? Perhaps a bit of both. Because... as soothing as Peter's touch is, as heartening as those words are to hear - that Harry coming back made Peter's life better again, it's also a guilty reminder that he... almost didn't come back. A reminder that he'd been THAT close to putting Peter through more heartache, more loss. Harry'd tried so hard to be there after that, to make amends for almost giving into his demons... And most importantly, to never make Peter feel heartbroken and left behind. Not by him. Never by him.
And yet, here he is, bleeding all over some rooftop, Peter desperately trying to stop it. Harry can't help but feel like he broke his promise, and it's eating away at his insides. "I'm sorry, Peter," he whimpers, strained and barely audible underneath his breathlessness and tears. Peter doesn't even know what he's saying sorry for... and Harry will never, ever tell him. But he can't help but ask for forgiveness anyway-- for being reckless and selfish and stupid. For not being strong enough. For making him have to sit here and watch his best friend writhe and cry and bleed everywhere. "I'm really-- really--"
His breath shudders, forcing him to stop; his ribs are on fire, and it feels like the pain spreads further and sharper the more he gasps for air. It's an agonizing few moments of trying to break the cycle, to calm his breathing and thus some of the pain, and-- he finds himself focusing on those words.
'It's not perfect, but we're together.'
It's always been enough for Harry, hard as things might get. It's always been his reason for holding on, for fighting a little bit harder. And to hear Peter say it... Well, it counts for a whole lot more than Harry has the strength to articulate right now. But he does - after what feels like an hour - finally manage a nod and a trembling smile. "Together," he agrees softly.
But whatever sobs he's been successfully holding back break loose the moment Peter's lips brush his forehead. 'We're okay,' Peter tells him, wiping his tears away with a tenderness that Harry wishes he were coherent enough to savor. It gives him peace, though. Harry believes him. Enough to hold tightly to staying awake. His fingers flex on Peter's arm, trailing up to his knuckles-- there's barely any strength behind it, but he's trying to hold Peter's hand against his cheek. Just for a little bit...
"I'm... glad you're my friend, Pete..."
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"Shh, shh," Peter murmurs gently, and even with how much control he's exercising to not freak out, the fear is ice cold in his chest. He brushes Harry's tears away as they well, over and over again, unwilling to give up, putting as much damn pressure as he dares on Harry's side. He bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from crying, too. "Don't, Harry. Please. You're okay. You're okay."
To imagine that Harry could be anything less is intolerable.
"Harry, breathe. Breathe!" Peter almost flails for a second - Harry's pained gasps turn worrying for a second, and oh God what if Harry stops breathing? What is he supposed to do, he can't give him chest compressions -
And then Harry's crying, face crumpled with pain and complex emotion, and Peter just holds him as best he can. He obliges, keeping his hand against Harry's cheek, wiping away the tears dutifully. His smile is tight-lipped and worried, very, very worried, but Harry's holding on, doing his damnedest to stay awake, and it's all Peter can possibly ask of him.
"Me too, Har." Peter sniffs, fingertips brushing lightly against Harry's cheek. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
The door at the opposite end of the roof bursts open, then, and Peter nearly flinches right out of his skin. He didn't clock the approach as a threat, however, because it's just Claire, looking harried and carrying her big-ass, very well-stocked first aid kit. She stops about a pace away, surveying the situation, and shakes her head, clearly exasperated. "Jesus, another one?"
"Not what you think," Peter croaks, throat catching on the desire to laugh hysterically and just never stop. "Please, help him."
No more needs to be said as Claire turns to don her gloves, and Peter pets his free hand back through Harry's curls again. "This is my friend, Claire. She's going to help you, okay? Just stay awake for me. Just keep staying awake."
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But the best he can do for Peter right now is just to keep fighting, so he does.
Peter's fingertips keep brushing across his cheeks - (Is he crying that much? He can't tell, can't really feel the tears anymore.) - and through his hair, and Harry chooses to focus on that as best he can. Somehow, Peter's always made it easier to breathe. Today, in more ways than one. He doesn't say anything else-- it's too much energy he can't afford to spare.
Well-- nothing except for the pathetic attempt at a nonchalant, "Hi," when Claire comes rushing over and Peter introduces her. He tries to smile, but it looks a lot more like a woozy grimace and he ends up just thumping his head back against the rooftop in defeat. He can't be bothered to wonder who she is or how Peter knows her-- not right now. Maybe he'll mull over it later, maybe he won't. Maybe he'll be too busy being grateful that he's still alive to care all that much. For now, he merely settles for a weak nod against Peter's hand, a silent confirmation that he'll keep fighting.
Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake.
--One of the biggest science expos of the year is next week, and Harry's been planning to take Peter for weeks. He wants to take him, even if he's broken and bruised up and having to hobble uselessly the entire time. He's going to be there, and they're going to have a good time. He's going to see Peter's face again, and Peter's going to see his, and he's going to stay awake.
And then he's going to hug Peter until they're both blue, and he's going to cook him one of his famous omelettes, and they're going to sit down and have that stupid cheesy monster movie marathon they've been meaning to have for months and--
And he's not going to bleed out on this goddamn rooftop.
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Peter talks. It's more babbling, really, and Claire, bless her, doesn't say anything about it. He talks about May, and baking brownies, and how mad she's going to be about his glasses, and how Harry was complaining about needing a haircut just the other day, but Peter's still running his fingers through Harry's curls and he really doesn't think he needs one, he likes it like this -
Peter talks. Harry's eyes are still open, even though Peter's not entirely sure how much of this he's really getting, but his eyes are open, and that's a start. That's something, and Peter latches onto it with desperate hope as Claire works, disinfecting and stitching and fixing, fixing, fixing.
He can't look, when she fully exposes the wound, hands shaking in Harry's hair - it's too similar, far too similar, except they're not on cold pavement. They're high above it all, on a rooftop, and Harry's not gonna die -
"Got it," Claire grunts quietly, deftly sewing up the wound, peeling off her gloves to smooth the clean, white bandage over Harry's side. She finally looks up, eyeing Peter critically; then her gaze flickers down to Harry, and she raises an eyebrow. "One of my better patients, I have to say."
"He'll - he'll be okay, right?" Peter asks, and Claire nods, resting back on her knees. She looks tired, and Peter feels bad about calling her out here, he really does - except that he's overwhelmingly relieved that Harry is going to be okay.
"Yeah, he just - needs to rest. Did he hit his head at all - he doesn't have a concussion, does he? He lost a lot of blood but it - didn't look like it hit anything internally. As far as I can see, I don't exactly have an X-Ray machine on hand here. And I'm not strictly a doctor, kid, you should probably take him to one." Claire sighs when Peter shakes his head, like that's exactly what she was expecting (she was). "Yeah, yeah, I get it."
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Not all of it is sinking in, but Harry finds comfort in the sound of Peter's voice. He keeps weaving; his head is full of fog and he's struggling to process everything going on. In some ways, that's a blessing-- he'd rather not feel the cleaning or his body being stitched back together in HD. All he's really able to grasp beyond the searing of his abs ripped open and his broken ribs grinding together is some vague sensation of pressure and his skin being threaded back together. Every so often, the disinfectant or the needle hits a sharp nerve, and he whimpers out a pitiful grunt, squeezing Peter's arm in an effort not to squirm too much.
And Peter... he was quick to comfort him every time. Diligently wiping away his tears, running his fingers across his scalp, talking to him about happy things... At some point (how long as it been?), he tells Harry that he shouldn't cut his hair, that it's nice when it's this long... and Harry smiles. He's not sure if it reaches his face or not, but he... hopes so.
The lady - what's her name again? ...Claire? - starts talking again. Harry hears Peter ask if he'll be okay, and Claire ask something about a concussion. (Did he? He thinks he remembers getting bonked a little with some debris but...) Does it matter? He's so tired...
"Can..." His voice croaks-- weak and barely audible. "Can I sleep now?"
His brows furrow, like he suddenly remembered something, and his hand drifts from Peter's arm to the front of his shirt, clutching at him uselessly. "And--" He tries to level a look at Peter, but it probably looks more like a bleary mess than any sort of formidable scowl. "You're... hurt, too--"
He tries to say more, but a new wave of nausea and pain and exhaustion washes over him, pushing a weary groan out of his throat before he more or less goes limp. By a dwindling thread, he's hanging on to consciousness.
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"I'm okay," Peter says quickly, though whether it's to Claire or to reassure Harry, he's not sure. Claire shoots him a doubtful look, but when she's done with Harry, she'll surely bully Peter into a checkup, too. She quickly checks Harry's pupils, confirming that he doesn't have a concussion - it's just the blood loss making him sleepy, but he'll be alright.
"Go to sleep, Harry." Peter murmurs, brushing Harry's hair back, away from his face. Peter's been there, too, passing out on a rooftop because it beats consciousness. "I've got you, man. You can let go, it's okay. We'll be alright."
Peter will have to get him home, but he can carry him...hopefully without disrupting his injuries. Peter's got some painkillers at home that he can give Harry, if he wakes up - the look on Claire's face suggests Harry might be conked out til morning, which, great...that gives Peter more time to figure out what the hell he's going to say.