I Will Be There At Your Side (peter parker x harley keener)

Chapter 8: The Measure of Intelligence is Einstein's Mum

the original quote is "the measure of intelligence is the ability to change", albert einstein. take that as you will 😭

Up, down, get the corner piece into place with that algorithm-thing-whatever, not his problem to remember what they're called, just gotta solve it. But also which algorithm is this one again? R2, U2, D2, heh, Star Wars.

Harley's sitting at the couch in the corner of the labs with a Rubik's cube neglecting his duties again (God, he's not being very productive today but like hell he's gonna take his meds for it), listening to Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy on loop again for the third time this week, meaning he's probably wasted at least five hours of his life to the repetitive motions of spinning his cube and humming off-key to a song he only half knows because he can't pay attention to the lyrics for his life. (He'd look it up, sure, but he forgets by the time he gets the chance.)

He should do his work.

He solves it, drops it onto the couch and listens to it bounce off and clatter across the floor, and starts walking. Pacing? Yeah, probably pacing. It can't be walking if there's no destination. Or, well, walking is just the act of moving your feet to get you from Point A to Point B, nothing says A can't equal B. But would that still count as a destination? What if you're just walking? He stops dead in his tracks and starts to crack his knuckles.

That was a sort of loud one.

He kinda wants to do something. But not work. He doesn't know what he wants to do. Why'd he stand up again?

Oh, right, cos he has work. Duh.

He sits down at the desk with a heavily heaved sigh, absently staring at the cream-coloured manila folders scattered across the tabletop while the guitar solo starts up and steals his attention.

There's a thump on the ground that usually means Peter's entered from the skylights again, except it's way too early for that, he'd still be patrolling probably, he never comes this early, that thump was way too loud to be him.

An alarm goes off and floods his senses, loud, red, repetitive, and then it's gone and he's nothing.

———

When he comes to again, it's sort of ironic how much more alert he is compared to before he was knocked out.

Oh, yeah, he passed out. What the fuck?

He squints up into the darkness drowsily, trying to see past the blaring fluorescence spotlighting him like some kind of dramatic crime film.

He blows lightly at the hair hanging over his eyes, tilting his head slightly as he does so.

Alright, think. How'd he get here? He was sitting in the lab, someone entered from the skylights, the alarms went off, and then he got knocked out. That would explain the thrumming pain in the back of his head. (He doesn't have a concussion does he? God, he can remember multiple ways to stitch open wounds but can't remember the basics of getting knocked out with blunt force.)

A shadow towers above and in front of him manifests a silhouette that carves out a form of someone he can't know, washing him in darkness. He feels something touch the side of his head with a gentleness that makes him feel sick, fingers brushing along his cheek and tucking his hair behind his ear. The motion sends shivers up his spine and he turns his head away, trying to get away from it.

Holy shit. What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck. He wants to throw up. What the fuck.

The shadow disappears as someone else emerges from the darkness in front of him, small and impish with a shark grin and thin sharpie eyebrows that point down. They're wearing a purple suit reminiscent of the Joker or something of the like, clicky black stilettos beat-up to an insulting degree.