Chapter Text
Last week, life was going well.
Johnny made himself terrible breakfasts—Herbie doing most of the actual work, of course. He blasted rock in the common room, hogged the little kitchen TV for Netflix marathons, even poked at Ben until he got a rise out of him. It was perfect, really. Sue’s nagging or Reed’s polite reminders about the milk felt harmless in the mix. It was daily life for Johnny Storm.
Then a week passed, and Sue went into labor. His nephew was born. That was great, until it wasn’t.
The Baxter Building flipped on its head. Reed lost his mind with baby-proofing: cabinets, doors, fridge, even the microwave had locks. Poor Herbie wasn’t spared either.
The first time he tried to grab cereal while Sue was breastfeeding, she didn’t even glance up.
“Jonathan, do me a favor and go somewhere else.”
He blinked. Go somewhere else? For cereal?
“Wait, are you actually depriving me of my daily beauty breakfast?” He half-joked, because in what universe would Sue just kick him out of a room?
“Out. You’re a walking fire hazard. Eat outside.” Cold, flat, like winter in human form.
He opened his mouth to protest, but Franklin’s cry cut him off. Perfect timing.
“I—dude—” He was still sputtering when Reed shuffled out of the hallway, hair a mess, eyes hollow. The guy looked like he hadn’t slept since Nixon resigned.
“Reed—help me out here. Your wife—my sister—says I’m a fire hazard and can’t be near the baby.”
Reed, already pouring coffee, didn’t even blink. “What’d you say, Johnny?”
“I said Sue’s banning me from the kitchen.”
“Oh. Yeah. She’s right.” He took a sip.
Johnny froze, staring. Thirty seconds passed before it really landed: Reed Richards had just agreed that Johnny Storm was officially persona non grata in his own kitchen.
“Y’know, I also live her–actually, never mind. Forget it.”
And with that, he gave up. No energy left to wrestle with this circus. He stormed (pun intended) out of the kitchen and straight into his room.
He thought of ordering takeout, or maybe just skip breakfast... crawl under the covers, sulk through a bad movie marathon while planning the world’s most dramatic tantrum for Sue, Reed, or hell, even Ben. But the ideas fizzled before they even started.
Instead, he dragged on a shirt, slid the giant crystal window open, and decided he was done with the Baxter Building altogether—for now.
“Flame on.”
He shot into the sky without a second thought, heat trailing behind him in a streak of fire. There was only one place his head pointed him toward—Peter’s shoebox apartment. The same cramped little spot Johnny loved to roast him for, but right now, it felt like the only safe place in the city.
He landed outside the window, pressed up against the glass like some oversized firefly. Still blazing, still peering in, looking for Peter. From the street below, it probably looked insane. From inside? Even worse.
Peter glanced up mid-whatever he was doing and nearly jumped out of his skin. Because, of course, Johnny Storm was hanging there, lit like a bonfire, staring into his apartment like a total creep.
“...Johnny?!” Peter nearly tripped over his own feet, his voice cracking from shock as he pointed at the window.
“Uh, yeah? Do you know any other flame-flying man who knows your address and looks this hot while breaking into your morning?” Johnny fired back with a smirk, his palms still glowing faintly as he hovered in place. He tilted his head, like he was genuinely offended Peter had to even ask.
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath before walking over and unlocking the window. When he pushed it open, the rush of warm air from Johnny’s flames swept in like someone had turned the heater up to hellfire.
Up close, Peter looked like he’d been pulled right out of bed. His tank top was clinging with sweat, shorts hanging low on his hips, hair sticking out in every chaotic direction—less “friendly neighborhood Spider-Man” and more “half-dead college student who forgot to set an alarm.”
Johnny snorted the second he got a good look. “Wow. You look like absolute crap. Like, not even funny-crap. This is tragic-crap.” Without hesitation, he stepped through the window, flames flickering out in an instant as he set foot on the floor. He ran a hand through his perfect blond hair for emphasis. “It’s honestly an insult to stand next to me looking like that.”
Peter just stared, blinking slowly, then shut the window behind him with a heavy click. “Okay, one; rude. Two, what the hell are you even doing here? Do you know what time it is?” He glanced at the crooked clock hanging on his wall and groaned. “It’s eight in the morning, Johnny.”
“Yeah, and you’re acting like that’s some sacred hour.” Johnny threw himself onto Peter’s couch like he owned the place, spreading out with dramatic flair. “Were you training? You're sweaty as hell for 'eight in the morning.'”
“No. The air conditioner died on me like a week ago.” Peter crossed his arms, still standing by the window, and shot him a look that could’ve burned as hot as Johnny’s flames.
Johnny held back a laugh and simply fidgeted one of Peter's couch cushions. “Damn. Sucks.”
Peter rubbed a hand over his face, dragging it down until his cheeks puffed out. “You seriously woke up, flamed on, and thought, ‘Hey, I’ll go bother Parker before breakfast.’”
Johnny grinned, leaning back with his hands behind his head, like this was the most natural thing in the world. “Correction,” Johnny said, looking at him lazily from the couch, “I didn’t just wake up—I was exiled. Banished. Thrown out of my own kitchen like some unwanted housecat.”
Peter blinked. “…By Sue?”
“By Sue, by Reed, by baby-proof locks on literally everything—hell, even Herbie got muzzled. You ever seen a robot sulk, Pete? It’s depressing.” Johnny swung one leg over the other like he was filing a grievance with HR. “So, congratulations. You’re officially my safe house.”
Peter snorted despite himself, shaking his head as he padded over to the kitchenette. “Yeah, because nothing screams safe like the Human Torch crashing through my window at eight in the morning.”
“Window’s still intact, isn’t it?” Johnny shot back, tapping the arm of the couch. “You’re welcome for my kind arrival. That was artistry.”
Peter grabbed a mug from the cabinet, muttering something about needing coffee before dealing with superhero squatters. “You’re unbelievable.”
Johnny stretched out, looking entirely too comfortable in the tiny space. “Nah. I’m inevitable.” He smirked, then flicked his gaze at Peter. “So, you got breakfast? Or are we both starving in this sauna you call an apartment?”
“I’ve got, at best, some grapes in the fridge,” Peter admitted, opening the door with a half-hearted wave at the barren shelves. “Haven’t done grocery shopping in weeks.”
Johnny craned his neck to peek inside and whistled low. “Wow. That’s not a fridge, that’s a hostage situation. Dude… y’know what? I’m in the mood for some grocery shopping. I’ll even lend you my card.” He sat up on the couch, already fishing in his pocket like he was ready to hand it over.
Peter immediately shut the fridge and held up a hand. “What? No. I don’t need your money. I’ve got it covered, it’s just–”
“Peter.” Johnny’s tone dropped into that rare, firm register he almost never used, the one that carried more weight than his usual joking. “You know damn well I’m insisting.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, card glinting between his fingers. “You look like you’ve been living off bad fan air and pure stubbornness. Let me fix one of those problems.”
Peter froze, caught between irritation and the undeniable truth of Johnny’s words. His hair was still sticking to his forehead from sweat, his fridge really did look like a crime scene, and he knew deep down he’d been putting off groceries because juggling rent, patrol, and bills left him stretched thinner than spider silk.
Johnny raised a brow at his silence, smirk creeping back onto his face. “What, too proud to let me treat you to something better than grapes? Relax, it’s not charity. Think of it as… hazard pay for putting up with me this early.”
Peter sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, the mess only getting worse. “You’re annoying.”
“And generous. Don’t forget generous,” Johnny said, standing up like the decision was already made. “C’mon, Spidey. We’re hitting the store. I promise not to set the produce aisle on fire. Probably.”
“Yeah, right.” Peter finally crossed the room, planting himself in front of Johnny with that deadpan stare he’d perfected. “And you’re planning to, what? Go shopping like that?”
Johnny blinked, glancing down at himself, then back at Peter. “Like what? Look at you.” he shot back without missing a beat, gesturing broadly at Peter’s sweat-stained tank top.
Peter’s face flushed as he sputtered, “I- dude, I meant that. You’re Johnny Storm. Mr. Fantastic Four. Going grocery shopping with a nobody like me on some random Tuesday morning. Paparazzi, hello?”
“Ohhh. That.” Johnny leaned back on the couch, grin curling as if the thought didn’t bother him in the slightest. “Easy. I’ll borrow some glasses and a cap from you, blend right in. Boom, just another guy buying eggs.” He tossed his hands up, like it was the simplest plan in the world.
Peter squinted at him, skeptical but already too tired to argue. “I guess that’s something.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, then sighed in surrender. “Fine. I’ll go shower. Don’t-” he pointed firmly as he turned toward the bathroom, “burn anything in the meantime.”
Johnny saluted him with mock seriousness, card still dangling between his fingers. “Scout’s honor. Not a single flame.”
The second the bathroom door clicked shut, though, Johnny glanced around the tiny apartment with mischief flickering in his eyes. “…But maybe a little rearranging,” he muttered under his breath, stretching out comfortably like he owned the place already.
Johnny pushed himself off the couch and strolled into the kitchen like he’d lived there all his life. He yanked the fridge open and immediately squinted at the barren shelves. Peter hadn’t been exaggerating.
Grapes. Three lonely water bottles. An almost-empty carton of milk teetering on the edge of expiration. And some leftovers in a plastic container that looked like they’d been forgotten through at least three crime-fighting shifts.
“Damn,” Johnny muttered, shaking his head with mock pity. “This is tragic.” Without hesitation, he plucked the grapes off the shelf and popped a handful into his mouth, not even bothering to wash them. Chewing loudly, he shut the fridge with his hip and padded back down the hall.
By the time he reached Peter’s room, he was already halfway through the bunch. He pushed the door open with the casual entitlement of someone who’d clearly decided boundaries didn’t exist, eyes immediately scanning for the closet. “Alright, Parker, let’s see what tragic disguises you’ve got tucked away in here.”
Johnny slid the closet door open and snorted at the sight—mostly hoodies, jeans, and button-ups that looked like they belonged to a perpetually broke grad student. “Wow. No wonder you’re Spider-Man. You can’t survive in the daylight looking like this.” He tossed another grape into his mouth, already rifling through the hangers for a cap, a hoodie, anything that could hide a celebrity flame-thrower doing grocery runs at eight in the morning.
At one point he ended up elbow-deep in Peter’s closet, flicking through hoodies and wrinkled flannels, when his hand brushed something thicker at the very back. He tugged—and out came the unmistakable red-and-blue fabric, bunched into a careful fold. Johnny’s eyes widened.
“Well, well, what do we have-”
“What the hell are you doing?”
The voice from behind nearly stopped his heart. Johnny jumped so violently he dropped the suit onto the floor like it was radioactive. “Jesus–!” He spun, clutching his chest like he’d been shot.
Peter leaned against the doorway, freshly showered, steam still clinging to his skin. A towel was slung low around his hips, water trailing down his collarbone. His grin was wide, almost cruel, as he glanced from Johnny to the suit on the ground. “You snoop like a grandma. Scared much?”
Johnny’s jaw worked for a second before he managed a glare. Then his eyes flicked down Peter’s frame; defined arms, lean torso, droplets sliding down toward the towel. He gave a low whistle and shook his head. “Wow. I keep forgetting. For a guy who’s basically homeless, you’re still pretty jacked.”
Peter barked a laugh, running a hand through his wet hair. “That’s what happens when you get your cardio from swinging across half of Manhattan.” He nudged the crumpled suit with his foot. “You gonna explain why you’re raiding my closet like a raccoon?”
Johnny smirked, unfazed now, and popped another grape into his mouth. “Looking for a disguise. Didn’t expect to find this little number hiding in here. You’re welcome for not trying it on.”
“Yeah, right.” Peter rolled his eyes, brushing past Johnny with that no-nonsense shove only a sibling or a best friend would dare pull on him. He scooped the suit off the floor, carefully folding it back into the closet like Johnny hadn’t just dropped it like dirty laundry.
“There’s shades and a cap in there,” Peter said, jerking his chin toward a little cabinet beside the bed. Then, as if Johnny wasn’t even in the room, he turned back to the closet and started rifling through clothes.
Before Johnny could so much as drop any comment, the towel came off, Peter standing there with all the casual confidence of someone who thought nothing of it. They’d fought battles together, bled together, crashed on each other’s couches a hundred times—but Johnny had never quite been hit with this particular view before.
For a split second, his brain short-circuited. The grapes in his hand suddenly felt very out of place.
“You gonna get the stuff, or you just gonna stand there staring at my ass?” Peter tossed over his shoulder, half-laughing as he tugged at his jeans. The tease was light, harmless—because between them, that kind of joke had always been safe. Johnny was straight, they were just friends, nothing weird about it.
But Johnny? His brain had nothing but rolling tumbleweeds. The line between harmless and dangerous blurred in an instant, every last straight thought he’d clung to that morning dissolving in the heat crawling up his neck.
“Johnny?”
A few seconds passed.
“Huh?” He jolted, blinking hard as if Peter’s voice had yanked him out of a dream. “Yeah–uh, I was just–” He forced a smirk onto his face, scrambling for the joke lifeline. “I mean, c’mon. Look at that ass, man. I think you should be holding the ‘America’s Ass’ title, not Rogers.” He barked out a laugh, waving it off like nothing, and moved toward the cabinet Peter had pointed out earlier.
Peter froze mid-motion, pants halfway zipped. He glanced over his shoulder, brows lifting just slightly. “…Uh, sure.” He shook his head, mumbling as he finished dressing. “You’re acting weird today. Don’t turn into, like, a villain of the week on me, alright?”
Johnny glanced back, shades now in hand, and grinned wide. “Pfft. Week villain? Please. I’d be a special grade villain. They’d make a whole blockbuster about me. Red carpets, action figures, the works.”
Peter rolled his eyes, but the twitch of a smile betrayed him. “God help us all.”
“Yup,” Johnny at last replied, slipping the shades on and giving himself a once-over in the mirror like he was about to headline a premiere, not buy groceries.
Peter finished tugging his sneakers on, ruffling his damp hair one last time before walking to the door. “Alright. You coming?” he asked, holding the doorknob with that impatient tilt of his head.
Johnny strolled over, grape stem dangling from his hand like a trophy. “Lead the way, roomie. Let’s go show the world the most iconic duo since peanut butter and jelly.”
Peter groaned, muttering under his breath as he stepped out into the hall. “More like burnt toast and expired milk…”
Johnny grinned ear to ear, following right behind him. “Still delicious, baby.”
The walk to the store was quiet, but not the comfortable kind. It was the strained, awkward sort of quiet where Johnny kept twitching like a firecracker ready to pop, and Peter kept cutting him off before he could.
By Johnny’s third attempt, he couldn’t take it anymore. “Ow—stop, that hurts!” he hissed, rubbing at his ribs where Peter had jabbed him. “Seriously, why can’t I suddenly speak? Did Sue brainwash you? Is this, like, her revenge plan through you?”
Peter shot him a look, half-annoyed, half-desperate, tugging the brim of Johnny’s borrowed cap lower over his blond hair. “Dude– your voice. Do you hear yourself? It’s like surround sound Dolby in the middle of the street. All that cover-up isn’t worth a damn if you can’t shut your huge mouth for five minutes.”
Johnny clutched his chest in mock offense, staggering like he’d been mortally wounded. “My voice is iconic. People would kill to hear it in surround sound. You’re welcome, city of New York.”
“Yeah, well,” Peter muttered, elbowing him again but softer this time, “New York doesn’t need the Human Torch announcing grocery runs at top volume.”
Johnny grinned despite himself, leaning closer with a whisper that was anything but subtle. “So what you’re saying is… you just like having me all to yourself.”
Peter groaned audibly and picked up his pace, muttering, “God, why did I even open the window.”
Between bursts of laughter and Peter’s long-suffering sighs, they finally made it to the corner grocery store Peter usually dragged himself to once a week. Somehow, maybe by miracle, maybe by exhaustion—Johnny seemed to click into gear the moment they crossed the automatic doors. The flames of his personality dimmed just enough to pass for a regular human being.
“I’ll get the cart, you’ll be the wife,” Johnny said smoothly, already snagging one and giving it a loud rattle as he pushed it forward like it was some kind of sports car.
Peter stopped dead, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can't just—cannot say things like that out loud in public.”
Johnny flashed him a grin, leaning on the handle with all the confidence in the world. “What? People would love us. We’re relatable. Power couple energy.”
“Power couple energy?” Peter hissed under his breath, glancing around to make sure no one was staring. “We’re literally here for eggs and milk, not a reality show.”
“Exactly,” Johnny said, steering the cart dramatically into the first aisle. “This is our pilot episode. Stick with me, babe, ratings will soar.”
Peter groaned but trailed after him, muttering, “This is my personal hell.”
Before Peter even caught up, Johnny had already raided half the snack aisle. The cart looked like a sugar-fueled apocalypse: cookies stacked high, chocolate bars threatening to topple, three different cereals, and marshmallows tossed in like confetti.
By the time Peter reached him, he stopped short, squinting at the mountain of junk like he was staring at a crime scene. His face said it all.
“You trying to kill me with diabetes?”
Johnny shrugged, leaning casually on the handle as if nothing was wrong. “I mean, it’s the snack aisle. Don’t blame me for respecting tradition.” He popped a box of chocolate chip cookies into place like it belonged there permanently.
“Right.” Peter muttered, rolling his eyes so hard it nearly hurt. He grabbed two dozen eggs from the cooler and dropped them into the cart with deliberate weight, like he was balancing out Johnny’s chaos.
Johnny peeked down at the eggs, then back up at Peter, grinning slyly. “Wow. The responsible parent move. You really are the wife.”
Peter didn’t even dignify that with a response—he just kept walking, muttering under his breath about never bringing him again.