Chapter Text
Peter isn’t supposed to be in the lab today.
He reminds himself even as he follows Reed Richards into the Baxter Building’s lower levels like a particularly obedient stray. The invitation had come casually—just a half-muttered question about his availability to help catalog some alien salvage. No compensation, obviously. Just a “great learning opportunity.” Peter had said yes without thinking, the way he always does when someone even marginally respected in the scientific community acknowledges his existence. Besides, what else was he going to do with his day? Patrol? Scour Craigslist for broken toaster ovens?
Reed usually lets him handle the smaller pieces while he runs calculations and mutters into his dictation device. It’s tedious work, but Peter finds it fascinating. He doesn’t mind the silence—or the almost-silence, really, since Reed never actually talks unless it’s to correct someone’s math. Peter’s comfortable here. Focused.
He doesn’t know Johnny will be there until it’s too late to pretend he has somewhere else to be.
Johnny’s already in the lab when Peter arrives, lounging against a bench. He’s tossing a baseball into the air, catching it with one hand, and making just enough noise to be distracting. The moment Peter walks in, Johnny gives him the kind of look that implies both recognition and complete indifference.
“Look who’s back,” Johnny drawls. “You applying for a permanent intern badge now?”
Peter adjusts the strap of his backpack and manages a tight smile. “Volunteering. Again.”
“Aw. That’s adorable.” Johnny grins, then tilts his head. “You do realize Reed’s not gonna write you a letter of recommendation, right?”
Peter doesn’t answer. He’s already moving toward the containment field where several alien artifacts are laid out across a heat-resistant table, each one tagged and numbered. Reed is somewhere deeper in the lab, calibrating a particle scanner, which means Peter and Johnny are alone for now. The silence between them grows louder by the second.
The object Peter’s focused on is a flat, disk-like piece of alloy with an opalescent core that pulses faintly every few seconds. It’s roughly the size of a drink coaster and emits low-level energy that Reed claims is stable, though not inert. Peter wants to run another scan before handling it directly, but as he reaches forward, Johnny sidles closer.
“Careful,” Johnny says, voice lilting. “Wouldn’t want to trigger an interdimensional wormhole or something. Although that would be fun.”
Peter rolls his eyes behind his goggles. “It’s not unstable. Just sensitive to bioelectric feedback. Maybe don’t crowd it.”
Johnny raises his hands in mock surrender but doesn’t back off. “I’m just observing, Bugboy. Gotta do my time or Sue’s gonna revoke my Xbox.”
“Please stop calling me that.”
“What? Bugboy? It’s a term of endearment.”
“It’s condescending.”
“You’re condescending.” He steps closer and peers into it. “This one’s new.”
Peter shifts slightly, placing himself between Johnny and the object without making a scene. “We’re still observing. Energy’s unstable.”
“Which means what, exactly?” Johnny leans in despite the warning. “Dangerous? Explosive? Is it going to hatch and eat us?”
Peter levels a look at him. “It means we don’t touch it.”
Johnny snorts. “Relax. It’s not doing anything.”
“Yet,” Peter snaps. “That’s the key word here. Yet.”
“I’ve handled worse,” Johnny says, already reaching for the edge of the containment casing.
Peter catches his wrist before he can make contact. “You’re being reckless.”
Johnny pulls his hand back, glaring. “You’re being uptight.”
“And you’re acting like a child.”
Johnny grins, infuriatingly smug. “You’re just jealous.”
Peter blinks. “Of what?”
“This,” Johnny says, gesturing to himself like he’s modeling for a magazine cover. “The headlines. The powers. The cool factor. You’re stuck babysitting space junk and swinging around in a red and blue costume while I get the real action.”
“You really think that’s what matters?” Peter mutters.
“I think you wish it was,” Johnny fires back.
"That's not—" Peter starts, but his retort is cut short when Johnny shifts forward, accidentally knocking Peter's arm against the containment field.
Their hands collide with the disk simultaneously. Peter's fingers brush against the opalescent core just as Johnny's palm makes contact with the outer rim. The artifact flares to life, pulsing with blinding intensity. A wave of brilliant blue-white light erupts from the center, expanding outward in a perfect sphere that engulfs them both.
Peter's heart seizes in his chest. His vision whites out completely. Every nerve ending in his body screams danger, and he braces for pain, for disintegration, for something catastrophic—
Then... nothing.
The light vanishes as quickly as it appeared. The disk sits inert on the table, its core now dark and lifeless. No alarms. No radiation. No interdimensional portal. Just Johnny and Peter, frozen in place, both still very much alive and intact.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Peter hisses, jerking his hand away and shoving Johnny back. "Are you trying to get us killed? Or worse—expelled from Reed's lab permanently?"
Johnny blinks a few times, looking almost disappointed. "That was anticlimactic."
"Anticlimactic?" Peter's voice rises an octave. "You were hoping for what, exactly? Superpowers? Newsflash, Storm—you already have those!"
"Maybe a cool explosion," Johnny shrugs, examining his hands like he's checking for new abilities. "Or at least some sparks. That thing just died."
Peter runs a trembling hand through his hair, adrenaline still coursing through his system. "You're unbelievable. We don't know what that thing did. It could have—I don't know—tagged our DNA or implanted alien spores or something."
"Alien spores?" Johnny snorts. "You watch too many horror movies."
"And you don't think enough about consequences," Peter bites, already reaching for a handheld scanner. He waves it over his own body first, then reluctantly over Johnny's. The readings look normal, which is somehow more unsettling than if they'd found something wrong.
"See? We're fine," Johnny says, but there's something off about his voice. A slight hesitation.
Peter narrows his eyes. "You feel okay?"
"Yeah, sure," Johnny says too quickly. "Why wouldn't I?"
Before Peter can press further, Reed's voice carries from the adjacent room. "What was that flash? Did something activate?"
Peter and Johnny exchange a quick, panicked glance—the first moment of genuine synchronicity between them.
"Nothing!" they call out in unison, then glare at each other.
"Just testing the new LED system," Johnny adds smoothly.
Peter rolls his eyes but doesn't contradict him. He turns back to the disk, which now appears completely dormant. Its surface has changed color from a matte silver to a deep, burnt bronze, like it's been oxidized by centuries instead of seconds.
His stomach churns. Whatever just happened, it wasn't nothing. He can feel it in his bones—a low-grade hum that wasn't there before, like he's been plugged into an electrical current set to the lowest possible setting. His spider-sense isn't going off, which should be reassuring, but instead it makes him more anxious. Maybe the artifact scrambled that too.
He glances at Johnny, who's now examining his fingernails with unusual interest. There's a tightness around his eyes that wasn't there five minutes ago, and Peter catches him flexing his fingers like he's testing something.
"You sure you're okay?" Peter asks again.
Johnny's head snaps up. "Stop being paranoid, Spidey. We touched some alien junk and didn't die. That's a win in my book."
Peter notices he doesn't quite meet his eyes when he says it.
Reed's footsteps echo from the hallway, growing closer. Peter quickly moves to block the view of the discolored disk, his mind racing through possible explanations that won't get them both banned from the lab forever. The humming sensation under his skin intensifies, and he has to resist the urge to scratch at his arms.
"Just... don't mention the color change," Peter mutters.
Johnny nods, which surprises him. Usually Johnny would take any opportunity to throw Peter under the bus, especially if it meant deflecting attention from his own recklessness.
Reed rounds the corner, already stretching unnaturally to peer over their shoulders at the workstation. "Everything progressing smoothly? I thought I noticed an energy spike on the monitors."
Peter forces his voice to stay level. "Just routine scanning. Nothing unusual to report."
The lie tastes bitter on his tongue, but the alternative—admitting they contaminated an alien artifact through sheer stupidity—seems infinitely worse.
Reed buys the lie, or at least pretends to, and the rest of the afternoon passes in a fog of tension. Peter can't shake the crawling sensation under his skin, like something's rewiring his nervous system one synapse at a time. He catches Johnny staring at his own hands more than once, opening and closing his fists as if testing their responsiveness.
By the time Peter leaves the Baxter Building, a headache has bloomed behind his eyes, throbbing in time with his pulse. He puts on his suit and swings home (to avoid subway delays and traffic) on autopilot, nearly missing a building when his web shooter misfires. The city blurs beneath him, a smear of lights and noise that feels more distant than usual.
He just needs sleep, he tells himself as he crawls through his bedroom window, peeling off his mask. It’s probably nothing.
He doesn't bother with dinner, just collapses onto his bed fully clothed. His last coherent thought before unconsciousness claims him is that Johnny Storm looked almost afraid when they parted ways.
The first thing Peter notices is the light, too bright and direct, slicing through his eyelids like a laser. He groans and rolls over, burying his face in a pillow that feels impossibly soft against his cheek. Not his lumpy Target clearance pillow, but something that probably costs more than his monthly rent.
His eyes snap open.
The ceiling above him is at least fifteen feet high, with recessed lighting and what appears to be hand-painted detailing along the crown molding. Peter sits up so fast his vision swims, and that's when he realizes several critical things at once.
He's not in his cramped bedroom in Queens. He's in an enormous bed with black satin sheets in what appears to be the master suite of a luxury penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a panoramic view of Manhattan that could only come from one of those buildings where the doormen wear white gloves.
More importantly, he's naked. Completely, horrifyingly naked. And the body he's looking down at isn't his.
"What—" Peter chokes, and even his voice is wrong—deeper, smoother.
He scrambles out of bed, nearly tripping over his own—no, not his—feet, which are bigger and attached to longer legs than he's used to. The floor beneath him is heated marble, because of course it is. He staggers across the room, drawn to a wall of mirrors that line what appears to be a walk-in closet the size of his entire apartment.
The reflection staring back at him isn't Peter Parker. It's Johnny Storm.
"No, no, no," Peter whispers, watching Johnny's lips form the words. He raises a hand to his face—Johnny's face—feeling the sharper jawline, the absence of his usual quick-to-grow stubble. His hair is golden and perfectly tousled even though he just woke up. His body is buffer and more muscular, more defined, compared to Peter’s own toned litheness.
His knees buckle. He grabs the mirror's edge to steady himself, watching Johnny's face contort with his own panic. This can't be real. He's dreaming, or hallucinating, or having some kind of psychotic break brought on by alien radiation.
He pinches his arm—Johnny's arm—and the sharp pain confirms what his mind refuses to accept. He's awake and coherent and he's somehow inhabiting Johnny Storm's body.
"Okay," Peter breathes, forcing himself to think through the terror. "Okay, this is... this is temporary. Has to be. Some kind of consciousness transfer triggered by the artifact. Reed will figure it out. Reed fixes everything."
His reflection doesn't look convinced.
Peter stumbles back toward the bed, searching for clothes, for his phone, for anything that might help him make sense of this nightmare. The nightstand is sleek black lacquer with a single drawer. Inside, he finds a wallet, keys to what looks like an expensive sports car, and a phone with a cracked screen protector because apparently even Johnny Storm drops his phone sometimes.
The wallet contains more cash than Peter usually sees in a month, several credit cards, and a driver's license confirming what the mirror already told him. Jonathan Lowell Spencer Storm. Age 24. The photo shows Johnny's trademark smile, the one that makes Peter want to punch him on a bad day.
Peter sinks onto the edge of the bed, Johnny's phone trembling in his hands. He needs to call someone. Reed. Sue. Hell, even Ben would be better than sitting here alone with this impossible situation.
But first, he needs to know if Johnny is experiencing the same thing.
The phone's contact list is exactly what Peter would expect, which is a mixture of superhero colleagues, media contacts, and what appears to be an alarming number of people listed only by first names with various emoji combinations. Peter scrolls past "Aaron 🔥" and "Annie 🌶️" until he finds his own contact information, listed simply as "Bug Boy 🕷️."
Even in his phone, Johnny can't resist the nickname.
Peter's finger hovers over his own number. What if Johnny doesn't answer? What if this is one-sided, and Johnny is unconscious somewhere while Peter is trapped in his body? What if—
The phone buzzes in his hand. An incoming call from Sue 👸💙.
Peter stares at the screen, paralyzed. He can't answer this. Sue Storm will take one look at him—at Johnny's face saying Peter's words—and know something is catastrophically wrong. But if he doesn't answer, she might come looking for her brother, and that would be even worse.
The buzzing stops. Then immediately starts again.
Peter's thumb swipes to accept before his brain can override the decision.
"Johnny, thank God," Sue's voice fills the room, tight with worry. "Reed's been trying to reach you all morning. Something happened at the lab last night, and we need to run some tests—"
"Sue." Peter's voice cracks, and he winces at how wrong it sounds coming from Johnny's throat. "I'm... there's something you need to know."
Silence stretches across the line. Peter can practically hear Sue's analytical mind processing the tone, the hesitation, the complete absence of Johnny's usual tone.
"Johnny?" Her voice sharpens. "Are you hurt? You sound—"
"I'm not Johnny."
The words tumble out before Peter can stop them. He squeezes his eyes shut, gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles—Johnny's knuckles—go white.
"What do you mean you're not—"
"It’s Peter Parker." The admission feels like jumping off a building without webs. "Something happened yesterday with this artifact. Johnny and I, we both touched it, and now I'm... I'm in his body."
The silence that follows is so complete Peter wonders if the call dropped. He pulls the phone away from his ear to check the screen, but the timer is still running.
"Sue?"
"Stay exactly where you are." Her voice has shifted into the crisp, commanding tone she uses during Fantastic Four emergencies. "Don't leave the apartment. Don't talk to anyone else. I'm coming over."
"Sue, wait—"
But she's already hung up. Peter stares at the blank screen, his reflection caught in the black surface. Johnny's face looks as lost as Peter feels.
He needs clothes. Standing naked in a stolen body while waiting for Johnny's sister to arrive ranks somewhere between mortifying and traumatic on Peter's personal disaster scale. The walk-in closet reveals exactly what he'd expect from Johnny's wardrobe: designer everything, with enough leather jackets to outfit a motorcycle gang. Peter grabs the first normal-looking items he can find, which happens to be dark jeans that fit too perfectly and a plain white t-shirt that probably costs more than Peter's entire outfit budget for a year.
The clothes feel strange on this body. Johnny's broader shoulders fill out the shirt differently, and the jeans sit lower on his hips. Peter catches himself in the mirror again and quickly looks away. This is temporary, he reminds himself. It has to be.
His—Johnny's—phone buzzes with a text from Bug Boy🕷️:
we need to talk. NOW.
Peter's stomach drops. If someone is texting Johnny from Peter's phone, that means...
Another text appears:
Meet me at the Baxter Building. DON’T bring anyone else
Sue probably already called but DO NOT listen to her when she says don’t move
also where the hell is your autocaps. Why do you not use proper grammar
Peter unlocks the phone (thank god for face ID) and his hands shake as he types back.
Is this… Yk
The response comes immediately:
there’s something in me that fucking tingles when im about to do something stupid so im assuming its the same for when ur doing smth in my body
right now it's going off like a fire alarm.
Only Peter would know that. Which means Johnny Storm is currently trapped in Peter Parker's body, probably freaking out just as much as Peter is. The thought should be comforting. At least they're both in the same mess. Peter stares at his phone—Johnny's phone—and feels a strange double layer of dread. His own spider-sense is absent, but there's something else, a different kind of awareness humming under Johnny's skin.
"Okay," Peter mutters, running a hand through hair that's too soft and too perfect. "Okay, think. Reed's lab. That's where this started, that's where we fix it."
He needs to get to the Baxter Building fast, which means finding Johnny's keys and figuring out where the hell Johnny parked his car. Peter moves through the penthouse on unsteady legs, still adjusting to Johnny's height and weight distribution. The apartment is exactly what he'd expect from someone with more money than sense: minimalist furniture that probably cost a fortune, a state-of-the-art entertainment system, and no books anywhere.
In the kitchen, he finds a bowl of car keys on the counter next to a half-empty bottle of expensive scotch, Johnny's lifestyle on full display. Peter grabs the keys, then hesitates. He's never driven anything fancier than his aunt's ancient Toyota and the thought of crashing Johnny's sports car adds a fresh layer of anxiety to his already overloaded system.
His phone buzzes again with another text from himself—from Johnny:
hurry up parker. ur neighbors are starting to notice me acting weird
also i think im allergic to ur breakfast cereal
or maybe ur just allergic and i didn't know
Peter types back quickly:
Is your mouth getting itchy?? It just does that sometimes ignore it
I’m On my way! don't do anything stupid in my body
The reply comes instantly:
too late 😎
kidding. maybe.
does ur tongue usually just tingle urcrszy
seriously tho get here NOW
Peter stuffs the phone in his pocket and heads for the door, only to freeze when he realizes he has no idea where Johnny lives. The view from the windows suggests Manhattan, but that narrows it down to about a thousand luxury buildings. He pulls out the phone again and checks Johnny's location on the maps app—a penthouse in Tribeca. Of course.
The elevator ride down to the lobby is an exercise in self-control. Peter keeps his head down, avoiding eye contact with the other residents, terrified someone will speak to him and expect Johnny's usual charm in response. The doorman nods respectfully as Peter passes, and Peter manages a tight smile that probably looks more like a grimace.
Outside, the morning air hits his face, and Peter immediately notices another difference: Johnny's body runs hotter than his own. What feels like a crisp fall day to Peter's normal physiology barely registers on Johnny's skin. It's disconcerting, like wearing a coat that's too warm but can't be removed.
He clicks the key fob, and a sleek red Ferrari chirps in response. Of course Johnny drives a Ferrari. Peter approaches it like he might a dangerous animal, circling it once before reluctantly sliding into the driver's seat. The leather interior still smells new, and the dashboard contains more buttons and screens than Peter knows what to do with. He takes a deep breath—Johnny's lungs expanding with unfamiliar capacity—and presses the start button.
The engine purrs to life with a sound that probably costs more than Peter's rent. He adjusts the mirrors, trying to ignore how Johnny's face stares back at him from the rearview, and carefully pulls into traffic. Every instinct screams at him to web-swing instead, but that's not exactly an option when he's missing both his web-shooters and his actual body.
The drive to the Baxter Building takes twice as long as it should because Peter refuses to drive faster than the speed limit in a car that probably costs more than he'll make in the next five years. Other drivers honk and swerve around him, clearly expecting a car like this to drive like a reckless showoff. Peter grips the steering wheel tighter, Johnny's enhanced body temperature making his palms sweat against the leather. He’s honestly just terrified that he’ll burst into flames while driving, which won’t be fun for anyone.
By the time he reaches the Baxter Building, his nerves feel like exposed wires. He parks in the underground garage, taking up two spaces because parallel parking a Ferrari is apparently beyond his current skill set, and rushes toward the elevator.
The security guard waves him through without question—Johnny's face is apparently all the ID he needs—but Peter still feels like he's impersonating someone. Which, technically, he is.
The elevator ride up feels endless. Peter catches his reflection in the polished steel doors and has to look away. Johnny's body language is all wrong, too tense and careful where Johnny would be loose and confident. If anyone looks closely, they'll know something's off.
The lab level is eerily quiet when the doors open. Peter steps out cautiously, his borrowed senses picking up the familiar smell of ozone and heated metal that always clings to Reed's workspace, though muted. But there's something else underneath it now—a sharp, electric scent that makes the hair on Johnny's arms stand up.
"Peter?"
He spins around to find his own face staring back at him, and the disorientation is so complete he has to grab the wall for support. It's like looking in a funhouse mirror, except the reflection is moving independently and wearing his clothes wrong. Johnny—in Peter's body—has the collar of Peter's favorite flannel shirt popped up and his hair styled in a way that Peter would never attempt.
"This is so weird," Peter breathes, and Johnny nods frantically.
"Tell me about it. Do you know your body is like, constantly vibrating? There's this buzzing thing that won't shut up, and I think I accidentally stuck to your ceiling this morning." Johnny holds up Peter's hands, examining the fingertips. "Also, what's with all the calluses? Do you work construction or something?"
"It’s from the web-slinging," Peter says automatically, then winces. Johnny's voice saying those words sounds wrong. "And that buzzing is my spider-sense. It means danger. Or that something’s wrong, usually."
"Great. So we're in danger. That's comforting," Johnny says, but Peter's barely listening to his complaints about his spider-sense. Something else has caught his attention. There’s a low humming sound coming from deeper in the lab, rhythmic and almost musical. It wasn't there yesterday.
"Do you hear that?" Peter asks, tilting his head toward the sound. Johnny's ears seem less sensitive than his own.
Johnny—wearing Peter's face but with completely wrong expressions—pauses mid-gesture. "Hear what? I can hear fucking everything. I can hear the water moving through the pipes underneath us. It seriously sucks."
Peter ignores his unhelpful remarks and moves toward the sound. Johnny's muscle memory seems to be guiding his steps, making him walk with more swagger than Peter would ever attempt. The humming grows louder as they approach the main lab, and Peter realizes it's coming from the containment area where they touched the artifact yesterday.
"We need to find Reed," Peter says, but even as the words leave Johnny's mouth, he knows they won't. The humming has a pull to it, like a song he can't quite remember but desperately wants to hear again.
"Reed's not here," Johnny says, trailing behind him. "He left early this morning to consult with some physicists at Columbia. Something about 'unprecedented consciousness displacement' or whatever." Johnny makes air quotes with Peter's hands. “Honestly, I think he already knows about this.”
The lab doors slide open with a soft hiss, and Peter stops dead. The containment field is empty. The artifact—the bronze disk that had been dormant when they left yesterday—is gone.
"Where is it?" Peter whispers, scanning the lab. Equipment has been moved, tables rearranged. Someone's been here, working through the night.
"Where's what?" Johnny moves up beside him, and Peter catches his own scent, deodorant and the faint chemical smell that always clings to his clothes after web-slinging. It's deeply unsettling to smell himself from the outside.
"The disk. The thing we touched." Peter walks to the empty containment field, Johnny's enhanced vision picking up scorch marks on the metal table that definitely weren't there yesterday. "Someone moved it."
Johnny shrugs with Peter's shoulders, and Peter wants to shake him. "Maybe Reed locked it up somewhere safer after he figured out what it did to us."
But Peter doesn't think that's what happened. The scorch marks suggest energy discharge, and the humming sound is getting stronger, not weaker. It's coming from somewhere else in the building now, somewhere above them.
"We need to get out of here," Peter says suddenly, backing away from the empty containment field.
Johnny frowns with Peter's face, creating an expression Peter's pretty sure he's never made before. "Why? Shouldn't we wait for Reed to get back?"
"No," Peter says firmly. "Something's wrong." It's not spider-sense—that's gone with his body—but there's something else, an intuitive awareness that seems to be part of Johnny's physiology. Heat sensitivity, maybe. Whatever it is, it's screaming at him to leave.
Johnny winces and presses Peter's hands against his temples. "Man, these senses of yours are going haywire. It's like everything's dialed to eleven. I can hear conversations three floors up and smell what someone ate for breakfast yesterday and my skin feels like it’s about to peel itself off."
"That's normal," Peter says, already moving toward the exit. "Sort of. You'll get used to it."
"Get used to it?" Johnny stares at him incredulously. "How long do you think we're going to be stuck like this?"
Peter stops at the door, Johnny's taller frame casting a longer shadow than he's used to. The truth hits him with sudden, terrible clarity.
"We might be stuck like this permanently," he says quietly. "Whatever that artifact did, it transferred our consciousnesses completely. Our DNA, our powers—they're all tied to our physical bodies."
"No way." Johnny shakes Peter's head vehemently. "Reed will fix this. He always fixes things."
"And what if he can't?" Peter turns to face him, and it's beyond strange to argue with his own face. "What if the artifact is destroyed or damaged? We need to prepare for the possibility that this is... permanent."
Johnny's expression—on Peter's face—shifts from denial to horror.
"I can't be you forever," he says, voice rising. "No offense, but your life sucks. Your apartment is the size of my bathroom, and your clothes feel like they came from a donation bin."
"They did," Peter says automatically, then sighs. "Look, we don't have a choice right now. Until Reed figures something out, we have to live each other's lives. Which means you need to put on my Spider-Man suit tonight and go on patrol."
"What? No way!" Johnny backs up, hands raised. "I don't know how to swing on webs or do whatever spider-thing you do."
"My body remembers," Peter insists, moving closer. "The muscle memory is there. And if Spider-Man suddenly disappears, people will notice. They'll think it's open season for every criminal in the city."
Johnny runs a hand through Peter's hair, messing it up in a way that makes Peter wince. "Fine," he concedes, "but first we need to get out of here. There's something seriously wrong with this place."
"Yeah, okay. Let's go."
They head for the elevator, Peter's hand hovering near Johnny's back without touching him—his own back, which is still the strangest thing to process. The doors slide open with a soft ping that sounds too loud in the empty hallway.
As they descend, Johnny shifts uncomfortably in Peter's body. "I'm serious, Parker. This spider-sense thing is going crazy. It feels like my skull is trying to split open."
Peter frowns. "That's not normal. It usually just tingles, maybe gives me a headache if it's really bad."
"Well, it's worse than that. Way worse." Johnny presses Peter's palms against his temples. "Like something big is coming. Or already here."
The elevator reaches the parking garage, and they step out into the dim concrete space. Johnny immediately marches toward the Ferrari, hand outstretched.
"Keys," he demands.
Peter hesitates. "I don't think that's a good idea. You're not used to my reflexes, and I'm not sure—"
"Keys," Johnny repeats, more forcefully. "It's my car, and I'm not letting you drive it again. You parked it like an eighty-year-old woman. Don’t think I didn’t see."
"I was being careful!"
"You were being embarrassing." Johnny wiggles Peter's fingers impatiently. "Come on. I need to get out of here before my head explodes, and I'm not trusting you with my baby again."
Peter reluctantly hands over the keys, watching as Johnny slides into the driver's seat with Peter's body. It's jarring, seeing his own lanky frame behind the wheel of a Ferrari, especially when Johnny immediately adjusts the seat and mirrors with practiced ease.
"Get in," Johnny says, revving the engine. "And for god's sake, stop standing like that. You're making me look like I have a stick up my ass."
Peter climbs into the passenger seat, trying to relax his posture. "Where are we going?"
"My place. We need to figure this out somewhere that isn't making my—your—whatever—spider-sense go nuclear."
Johnny peels out of the parking garage with a squeal of tires, and Peter grabs the dashboard.
"Easy! This is still my body you're risking!"
"Relax. I know what I'm doing." Johnny weaves through traffic with alarming confidence. "So while we're stuck like this, there are some things you need to know about being me."
Being Johnny Storm apparently comes with a long list of rules and instructions, though Peter supposes he really should have expected that.
"Rule number one," Johnny says, lifting Peter's index finger. "Daily flame-on maintenance. You need to practice at least twice a day or the power builds up and gets harder to control."
"Wait, what?" Peter grips the door handle as Johnny takes a corner too fast. "I thought your powers were always accessible."
"They are, but they're like muscles. Gotta exercise them." Johnny drums Peter's fingers against the steering wheel. "Also, Reed wants bio-readings three times a week. Sue will remind you, but don't blow her off or she'll hunt you down."
Peter nods, mentally cataloging everything. "Got it. Anything else?"
"About a million things," Johnny mutters. "This is impossible. We need to write this down."
When they reach Johnny's penthouse, Peter grabs a legal pad from a drawer while Johnny raids his own refrigerator. The next hour is spent creating the most surreal to-do lists of Peter's life.
"Patrol every night," Peter says, writing carefully. "Even if you're tired. Especially in the areas I've marked on the map in my closet."
Johnny groans. "Every night? Don't you ever take a break?"
"Not really," Peter admits. "Oh, and don't forget to check the police scanner. I've got an app on my phone that filters for keywords—"
"Which you've also keyed into your personal phone, I'm guessing," Johnny interrupts, looking pained. "Do you ever just, I don't know, watch Netflix and chill?"
Peter ignores him. "And Jameson wants three articles by Friday. The notes are on my laptop—password is—"
"I don't want to know your password," Johnny interrupts. "This is already weird enough."
But Peter keeps writing, adding details about his apartment, his neighbors, his schedule. The list grows longer with each passing minute: when to visit Aunt May (weekly, minimum), which villains are most likely to cause trouble this time of year, how to properly wash the Spider-Man suit without damaging the tech.
Johnny's list for Peter is both simpler and more complicated. "Hang out with Sue at least twice a week or she thinks I'm avoiding her," he says, watching Peter write. "Go to the photoshoot on Thursday—my agent will text you the details. Help Reed in the lab when he asks, but don't volunteer too much or he'll never let you leave."
Peter pauses, pen hovering. "That's it?"
Johnny hesitates, then adds: "Visit the children's hospital on Tuesday. Fourth floor. They're expecting me."
There's something in Johnny's voice—Peter's voice, technically—that makes Peter look up. "You visit hospitals?"
"Don't sound so surprised," Johnny mutters. "I'm not completely self-absorbed."
Peter adds it to the list without comment.
When they finish, Peter stares down at the two lists, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer complexity of pretending to be someone else indefinitely. Johnny's life looks deceptively simple on paper, but Peter knows there are layers he's missing—social dynamics, family expectations, the kind of casual confidence that can't be taught.
"This is insane," Peter mutters, Johnny's voice carrying his exhaustion. "We can't actually pull this off."
"We have to," Johnny says, and there's something steel-edged in Peter's usually softer tone. "At least until Reed gets back and figures out how to fix this mess."
Peter looks up from the legal pad to find his own face staring back at him with an expression he's never worn—determined but brittle around the edges. It's unsettling, like watching himself in a dream where everything's slightly wrong.
"What if he can't fix it?" The question slips out before Peter can stop it.
Johnny goes very still. Peter's body has always been expressive, but Johnny makes it even more so—every emotion playing across features that Peter usually keeps more carefully controlled. Right now, those features show something close to panic.
"He'll fix it," Johnny says, but his voice cracks slightly on the words. "He has to."
Peter wants to argue, to point out that Reed isn't actually omnipotent despite what the Fantastic Four's track record might suggest, but the look on his own face stops him. Johnny's scared. Really, genuinely scared in a way that Peter's never seen him before. It makes something twist uncomfortably in Peter's chest—Johnny's chest—some emotion he can't quite name.
"Right," Peter says instead. "Of course he will."
The lie tastes bitter.
Johnny's phone buzzes against the coffee table, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment. Peter reaches for it automatically, then stops when he sees Sue's contact photo filling the screen.
"I should answer that," Peter says.
Johnny shakes his head—Peter's head—frantically. "No way. She'll know something's wrong the second you open your mouth."
"She'll know something's wrong if you don't answer." Peter picks up the phone, thumb hovering over the accept button. "Besides, we need to start practicing. If we're really going to do this, we have to be convincing."
The phone continues buzzing. Johnny bites Peter's lower lip—a nervous habit Peter didn't even know he had until he saw it from the outside.
"Fine," Johnny says. "But if this goes badly, it's all on you."
Peter swipes to accept the call and immediately puts it on speaker. "Hey, Sue."
"Peter. I've been trying to reach you all morning. Reed says we need to run some tests. Didn’t I tell you not to leave the apartment? Where’s Johnny? Is he with you?"
Peter glances at Johnny, who waves his hands frantically.
You told her? Johnny mouths incredulously. Peter makes a face at him and shrugs helplessly.
"Um, yes," Peter says into the phone, trying to sound as Johnny-like as possible. "He’s here. We're, uh, trying to figure things out."
Johnny slaps his forehead with Peter's hand. Peter winces and turns away from the sight of his own body language expressing such dramatic dismay.
"Peter," Sue's voice sharpens. "I told you to wait. Reed is working on this, but we need to be careful. We don't know what that artifact did to your physiologies beyond the consciousness transfer."
"I know, I know," Peter says, trying to keep the anxiety from Johnny's voice. "But Johnny—I mean, I—was freaking out in my apartment, and there was this weird humming sound at the lab, and—"
"Humming sound?" Sue interrupts. "What humming sound?"
Peter glances at Johnny, who's now making frantic cutting motions across his throat.
"It was like... a vibration," Peter explains, ignoring Johnny's pantomimed warnings. "Coming from where the artifact was, except the artifact wasn't there anymore. Someone moved it."
The silence on the other end of the line stretches so long that Peter checks to make sure the call hasn't dropped.
"Sue?"
"The artifact wasn't moved, Peter. It activated fully after you both left yesterday. Reed's been tracking the energy signature, but it's... unstable. Shifting."
Johnny grabs the phone from Peter's hand. "What does that mean, Sue?" he asks, and it's beyond strange to hear Peter's voice using Johnny's speech patterns. "Like, is it going to explode? Because Parker's spider-sense was going crazy at the lab."
Peter can hear Sue's sharp intake of breath.
"Johnny?" she asks, and there's a note of wonder in her voice. "That's really you in there?"
"Yeah, it's me," Johnny says, rolling Peter's eyes. "Stuck in Bug Boy's body and not loving it. His apartment is a disaster, by the way. And I think I'm allergic to his breakfast cereal."
"You're not allergic," Peter mutters.
Sue makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. "This is... Reed was right. A complete consciousness transfer without any apparent physical trauma. It's unprecedented."
"Great, we're making scientific history," Johnny says dryly. "Can we go back to the part where the artifact might explode? Because that seems more pressing."
"It's not going to explode," Sue says, but there's something in her voice that makes Peter's borrowed stomach tighten. "At least, not in the conventional sense.”
"But it's doing something," Peter says, Johnny's voice sounding uncharacteristically serious.
Sue sighs over the line. "We're not entirely sure. Reed's initial analysis suggests the artifact is a consciousness transfer device, obviously, but it appears to be... unstable. The energy readings keep fluctuating, and there's evidence that it's still active despite appearing dormant."
Johnny rakes Peter's hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that makes Peter wince. "So what, it's going to keep swapping people? Can it reach outside the building?"
"We don't know," Sue admits. "That's why I need you both to come back to the lab. Reed has set up a containment field that should shield you from any further effects while we figure this out."
Peter exchanges a look with Johnny, who shakes his head emphatically.
"No way," Johnny says. "That place was making my head—Peter's head—whatever—feel like it was about to explode. We're not going back there until Reed fixes whatever's happening."
"Johnny, be reasonable—"
"I am being reasonable! This body has some kind of danger alarm, and it was screaming at me to get out of there." Johnny paces the length of his living room in Peter's body, movements jerky and tense. "Tell her, Parker."
Peter shifts uncomfortably. "He's right, Sue. Something felt wrong in the lab. Not just the body-swap stuff, but something else. Like the artifact was... calling to us."
The silence on the other end of the line speaks volumes.
"Sue?" Peter prompts.
"Reed was afraid of that," she finally says, her voice tight. "The energy signature seems to be resonating specifically with your biological frequencies. He thinks the artifact might be trying to... complete something."
"Complete what?" Johnny demands.
"We don't know yet. That's why we need you both here, where we can monitor—"
"No," Johnny interrupts, firm. "Not happening. Not until Reed knows exactly what that thing is doing and how to stop it."
Peter nods, though Sue can't see him. "We'll stay here for now. Johnny's penthouse seems safe enough, and it's far enough from the Baxter Building that whatever's happening there can't reach us. Right?"
"Theoretically," Sue concedes. "But if you start experiencing any unusual symptoms—anything beyond the obvious consciousness displacement—you call me immediately. Understood?"
"Understood," Peter says, while Johnny makes an affirmative noise that sounds strange coming from Peter's throat.
"And don't leave the penthouse," Sue adds. "Not until we know more. Reed says the consciousness transfer might still be unstable, which means physical exertion could potentially destabilize it further."
Johnny groans. "So we're under house arrest?"
"Think of it as a medical quarantine," Sue says firmly. "I'll call when we know more."
The call ends, and the silence in Johnny's penthouse feels heavier than before. Peter stares at the phone, Johnny's longer fingers curled around the sleek case. House arrest. In a luxury penthouse, sure, but still confinement. His gaze drifts to the window, to the city sprawling beyond, and something uncomfortable settles in his borrowed chest.
"So," Johnny says, crossing Peter's arms and leaning against the kitchen counter. "What now? We just sit here and wait for Reed to fix this?"
Peter shakes his head. "That's not going to work."
"Because Sue said—"
"No, I mean it literally won't work," Peter interrupts, getting to his feet. Johnny's body moves differently, with more fluid grace than he's used to. "If Spider-Man suddenly disappears, people notice. Bad people. The kind who take advantage when they think no one's watching."
Johnny rolls Peter's eyes. "Pretty sure the city can survive without you for a day or two."
"You don't understand." Peter paces the length of the living room, feeling the strange heat that seems to pulse under Johnny's skin. "There's a rhythm to crime in this city. When Spider-Man disappears, it escalates. Fast. And right now, I've got at least three ongoing situations that could blow up if I'm not there."
"Like what?" Johnny sounds skeptical, but Peter catches a flicker of curiosity in his own hazel eyes.
"Like the weapons deal happening tonight in Red Hook. Or the missing kids in Queens whose trail gets colder every hour I'm not looking." Peter runs a hand through Johnny's perfectly styled hair, messing it up in a way Johnny probably never would. "People are counting on me.”
Johnny's quiet for a moment, studying Peter with an expression that looks strange on Peter's face—calculating, almost. "So what are you saying? You want to go out there in my body and play superhero? Because that seems like a terrible idea."
"No," Peter says, turning to face him. "I'm saying you need to go out there in my body and be Spider-Man."
Johnny barks out a laugh that sounds all wrong coming from Peter's throat. "Yeah, right. I don't know the first thing about being Spider-Man."
"You don't have to. My body knows what to do." Peter steps closer, uncomfortably aware of how he's looking up at his own face. "The reflexes, the strength, the web-slinging—it's all muscle memory. You just need to not mess up too badly."
"And what about you? What are you going to do, sit here and watch Netflix?"
Peter glances down at Johnny's hands, focusing on the strange sensation just beneath the skin. "No. I think I need to be you, too. The Fantastic Four can't suddenly be down a member either. It would raise too many questions."
Johnny stares at him for a long moment. Peter can practically see the arguments forming behind his own brown eyes, but whatever he's about to say is interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.
They freeze, exchanging a panicked look.
"Who the hell is that?" Johnny hisses. "Did you invite someone?"
"Me? This is your apartment!" Peter whispers back, instinctively moving away from the door. "Do you have a doorman? Don't they call up before letting people in?"
"Yeah, but some people have permanent clearance." Johnny runs Peter's hand through his hair nervously. "Could be Sue. Or Ben. Or—"
"Johnny? Open up!" The voice from the hallway is female, impatient, and definitely not Sue.
Johnny's expression morphs into something that looks completely foreign on Peter's face, a mixture of guilt and alarm that Peter's pretty sure he's never worn before.
"It's Darcy," Johnny whispers, his voice dropping even lower. "From PR."
"PR? Like, the Fantastic Four's public relations team?"
Johnny nods his head minutely. "I was supposed to meet her for drinks last night and completely forgot about it because I was too busy being body-swapped with you."
Peter stares at him in disbelief. "Are you kidding me right now?"
"Johnny! I know you're in there. Your car's downstairs!" Darcy calls through the door, sounding increasingly annoyed.
Johnny gestures frantically. "You have to answer it. You're me right now."
"What? No! I'm not dealing with your... your..." Peter sputters, but Johnny's already shoving him toward the door.
"Just tell her I'm sick or something. Food poisoning. Very contagious."
"Johnny, this is ridiculous," Peter protests, but the knocking has become more insistent, and Johnny's practically pushing him across the room.
"Please," Johnny whispers, and there's actual desperation in his voice.
Peter sighs, Johnny's breath leaving his lungs in a frustrated huff. "Fine. But you owe me."
He approaches the door, taking a deep breath and trying to channel Johnny's casual confidence. When he pulls it open, he finds a striking woman with dark hair and sharp eyes glaring up at him—at Johnny's face.
"There you are," she says, brushing past him into the apartment before he can stop her. "You ghosted me last night, Storm. Not cool."
Peter's mouth opens and closes, his brain scrambling for a response that Johnny might give. "I, uh—"
"Save it," Darcy says, dropping her bag on the counter. "I brought coffee as a peace offering, but now I'm thinking I should have brought something stronger." She turns, her gaze sweeping the apartment, and freezes when she spots Johnny in Peter's body. "Oh. You have company."
Her eyes narrow as she scrutinizes both of them, her gaze flicking between Johnny's body and Peter's with increasing suspicion. She crosses her arms, coffee forgotten on the counter. "When exactly were you planning on telling me about your boyfriend, Johnny?" she asks, one eyebrow arched.
Peter feels Johnny's face flush with heat—actual heat, not just embarrassment—and he prays he's not about to spontaneously combust. "My what? He's—we're—"
Darcy doesn't look impressed with his stammering. "Uh-huh. And he's in your penthouse at eleven in the morning because...?"
Before Peter can stammer through another unconvincing denial, Johnny strides across the room with a confidence that looks bizarre on Peter's normally awkward frame. He slides right up to Peter, takes Johnny's hand in his own, and intertwines their fingers with practiced ease.
"Peter Parker," Johnny says with a smile so sweet it's almost sickening, using Peter's own voice to introduce himself. "I'm Johnny's boyfriend. It's nice to finally meet you, Darcy. Johnny's mentioned you a lot."
Peter feels like his—Johnny's—knees might give out. He stares at their joined hands, then at his own face smiling back at him with an expression he's absolutely certain has never appeared on it before.
"You have?" Darcy asks, looking more intrigued than upset now. "Funny, he's never mentioned you."
"It's new," Johnny says smoothly, leaning against Peter with familiar ease. "We've been keeping it quiet. You know how the press gets."
Peter tries to nod along, but his brain feels like it's short-circuiting. Johnny's thumb is rubbing small circles against his palm, and it makes his borrowed stomach flip in a way that's deeply confusing.
"That explains the ghosting," Darcy says, her annoyance visibly fading. "Though a text would have been nice."
"My fault entirely," Johnny says, resting his head on Peter's shoulder in a way that looks extremely uncomfortable given their height difference. "I surprised him with a romantic evening. His phone was... otherwise occupied."
Peter watches in horror as Darcy's expression shifts from suspicion to understanding to something like delight. "Well, this changes everything," she says, picking up her coffee. "I came here to yell at you, but now I'm thinking this is actually perfect for the rebrand."
"Rebrand?" Peter echoes weakly.
"The Human Torch settling down is exactly the kind of image shift we've been looking for." Darcy pulls out her phone, already typing notes. "The bad boy with a heart of gold. The ladies will be heartbroken, but the long-term PR benefits are incredible.”
Darcy taps her phone against her chin, studying them. "We'll need some photos, of course. Nothing staged—candid shots work better. Maybe at the Foundation gala next week?" She glances between them. "You were planning to bring him, right?"
Peter feels like the floor is tilting beneath him. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out except a strangled noise that doesn't sound anything like Johnny.
"We haven't discussed it yet," Johnny says, squeezing Peter's hand with enough force to make him wince. "But I'd love to support him there."
"Perfect." Darcy beams at them. "This is going to be so much better than damage control for another nightclub incident." She picks up her coffee and heads for the door. "I'll reschedule our meeting for tomorrow. Bring Peter—we'll need to brief him on media protocols."
Before either of them can respond, she's gone, the door clicking shut behind her.
The moment they're alone, Peter yanks his hand away from Johnny's grip. "What the hell was that?"
"Improvisation," Johnny says, dropping the lovesick expression instantly. "You were about to blow our cover."
"By making me your boyfriend?" Peter's voice—Johnny's voice—cracks on the last word. "That was your solution?"
Johnny shrugs with Peter's shoulders. "It worked, didn't it? She totally bought it."
"She's going to tell people!" Peter paces across the living room, Johnny's longer legs carrying him faster than he intends. "The whole world is going to think Spider-Man and the Human Torch are dating!"
"Not Spider-Man," Johnny corrects. "Peter Parker. Big difference."
"Not to me!" Peter rakes Johnny's hands through his hair. "This is a disaster."
"Look, it was the first thing I thought of, okay? She was suspicious, and I panicked."
"You panicked?" Peter stares at him incredulously. "You looked like you'd been planning that performance for weeks!"
Johnny looks away, a flush creeping up Peter's neck that Peter himself has never seen from the outside before. "I'm good under pressure. And it's not like we need to actually date. We just need to pretend until Reed fixes this."
Peter collapses onto the couch, the leather cool against Johnny's overheated skin. "This is insane. This whole situation is completely insane."
"Tell me about it." Johnny sits beside him, the couch dipping under Peter's weight. "I'm stuck in your scrawny body with your weird sticky powers and your impossibly complicated life, pretending to be your boyfriend while also being you."
"My body isn't scrawny," Peter mutters. "It's lean and efficient, you asshole."
Johnny snorts. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Parker."
They sit in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Peter can feel his body temperature rising with his stress, the strange heat pulsing under his skin in waves that make the leather couch almost too warm to sit on.
"We need ground rules," Peter says finally. "If we're really doing this—pretending to be each other, pretending to be dating—we need boundaries."
Johnny raises Peter's eyebrows. "What kind of boundaries?"
"No kissing," Peter says immediately. "No... anything romantic. We keep the physical stuff to a minimum."
"Relax, Bug Boy. I'm not going to molest you in your own body." Johnny's grin looks predatory on Peter's usually gentle features. "Though I have to say, your reaction to holding hands was pretty telling."
Peter feels heat flare across Johnny's face—literal heat that makes the air shimmer slightly. "That wasn't—I was just surprised."
"Sure you were." Johnny stretches Peter's arms above his head, joints popping in a way that makes Peter wince. "God, your body is so tense. When's the last time you got a massage? Or went to the gym for fun instead of, you know, life-or-death spider training?"
"I don't have time for massages," Peter mutters. "Some of us have real responsibilities."
"Right, because saving the world with the Fantastic Four is just a hobby." Johnny's voice carries an edge that Peter's never heard from himself before. "You know what? Fine. You want to play superhero in my body? Go ahead. But don't lecture me about responsibility when you don't know the first thing about what my life actually involves."
Peter turns to stare at him, caught off guard by the genuine anger in his own voice. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Johnny stands up abruptly, Peter's movements sharp and agitated. "It means everyone thinks being me is just fun and games. Party boy Johnny Storm, right? No real problems, no real pressure. Just flame on and look pretty for the cameras."
"Johnny—"
"Forget it." Johnny waves Peter's hand dismissively. "We've got bigger problems than my ego. Like the fact that your spider-sense is giving me a migraine and I can hear Mrs. Chen arguing with her landlord six floors down."
Peter winces. The enhanced hearing is one of the hardest things to adjust to; he remembers his first weeks after the spider bite, when every sound felt like it was being pumped directly into his skull at maximum volume.
"It gets easier," he offers. "You learn to filter it out."
"When?" Johnny presses Peter's palms against his temples. "Because right now it feels like my brain is trying to escape through my ears."
"A few weeks, maybe a month—"
"A month?" Johnny's voice cracks. "Parker, we better not be stuck like this for a month."
Peter wishes he could offer more reassurance, but the truth is he has no idea how long this will last. Reed Richards is brilliant, but even he has limits. And if the artifact is as unstable as Sue suggested...
His phone—Johnny's phone—buzzes against the coffee table. Peter reaches for it, grateful for the distraction, but freezes when he sees the caller ID: Foundation Gala Committee.
"What's the Foundation gala?" Peter asks, showing Johnny the screen.
Johnny's expression shifts from pained to panicked. "Oh, right. The Future Foundation charity gala. It's next weekend." He grabs the phone before Peter can answer it. "Don't pick up. Please don't pick up."
"Why? What's wrong with a charity gala?"
"Nothing's wrong with it. It's just..." Johnny lets the call go to voicemail, but his face has gone pale. "It's a really big deal. Like, red carpet, paparazzi, all of New York's elite kind of big deal. And if Darcy's already planning to use our fake relationship as PR..."
Peter feels his borrowed stomach drop. "They'll expect us to go together."
"As a couple," Johnny confirms. "In front of cameras. In front of reporters who will ask questions we're not prepared to answer."
The phone buzzes with a voicemail notification. Johnny stares at it like it might explode.
"We could just not go," Peter suggests weakly.
"Can't. It's a Foundation event, which means Reed will be there, Sue will be there, Ben will be there. If I don't show up, they'll know something's wrong." Johnny runs Peter's hand through his hair. "Plus, I'm supposed to give a speech."
"You're supposed to what?"
"Give a speech. About the importance of scientific education or something. I wrote it weeks ago." Johnny looks miserable. "Well, Sue helped me write it. Okay, Sue wrote it and I was supposed to memorize it."
Peter stares at him. "You want me to give a speech. As you. In front of hundreds of people."
"Unless you have a better idea."
Peter doesn't. He really, really doesn't.
His own phone buzzes from somewhere in Johnny's pocket. Johnny pulls it out and squints at the screen. "It's your boss, I think. J. Jonah Jameson."
Peter's heart rate spikes, Johnny's enhanced metabolism making the panic feel like electricity under his skin. "Answer it. But don't—just try to sound like me, okay?"
Johnny swipes to accept the call. "Hello, Mr. Jameson."
"Parker!" Jameson's voice booms from the phone's speaker, loud enough that Peter can hear every word. "Where the hell is my story? You were supposed to have photos on my desk an hour ago!"
Johnny holds the phone away from his ear, wincing. "Sorry, Mr. Jameson. I'm not feeling well today. Food poisoning."
"Food poisoning? What are you, twelve years old? Get your camera and get me pictures of that wall-crawling menace!"
"I really can't—"
"I don't want to hear it, Parker! Spider-Man was spotted in Queens last night, and every other photographer in the city probably got better shots than you. This is your job! Your only job!"
The line goes dead. Johnny stares at the phone, then at Peter.
"He's charming," Johnny says dryly. "Real confidence booster."
Peter slumps back against the couch. "He's always like that. And he's right—I was supposed to be out taking pictures last night, but instead I was here getting body-swapped with you."
"So what happens if Spider-Man doesn't show up for photos?"
"Jameson fires me. Which means I can't pay rent, which means I get evicted, which means..." Peter trails off. "I can't not be Spider-Man, Johnny. Even for a few days. People depend on that income."
Johnny is quiet for a moment, studying Peter with an expression that looks strange on his own face. "How much does he pay you?"
"For photos? Not enough. But it's steady work, and flexible hours, and..." Peter shrugs with Johnny's shoulders. "It's what I can manage while being Spider-Man."
"That's fucked up," Johnny says bluntly. "You risk your life every night and you can barely afford rent?"
Peter doesn't know how to respond to that. The economics of being Spider-Man aren't something he usually discusses with other heroes, especially not ones who live in penthouse apartments and drive Ferraris.
"It's fine," he says finally. "I make it work."
Johnny looks like he wants to argue, but before he can say anything, Peter's phone buzzes with a text message.
"Another one from Jameson?" Peter asks.
Johnny checks the screen and shakes his head. "No. It's from someone called May." He looks up. "Your aunt?"
Peter nods, and Johnny opens the message.
"'Haven't heard from you in a few days, honey. Just checking in. Love you.'" Johnny's voice softens as he reads it, taking on a gentleness that Peter didn't know his own voice could carry. "When's the last time you called her?"
"Three days ago," Peter says automatically. "I call her every few days, just to check in. She worries."
Johnny stares at the phone for a moment longer, then starts typing a response. "What should I say?"
"Just... that I'm fine. Busy with work. Maybe that I'll try to visit this weekend." Peter watches Johnny's fingers move across his phone screen, the sight deeply surreal. "She likes to cook for me when I visit. It makes her feel useful."
Johnny finishes typing and shows Peter the message before sending it:
hi may! sorry i've been quiet work's been crazy. im doing fine, eating enough vegetables, getting enough sleep (mostly) might try to visit this weekend if things calm down luv u too❤️
"Good?" Johnny asks. “I tried to copy your terrible texting style.”
Peter nods, something tight in his throat. "Yeah. That's... that's good."
Johnny sends the message, then sets the phone aside. "She raised you, right? After your parents died?"
"Yeah." Peter doesn't usually talk about his family history, but something about seeing Johnny handle the conversation with May so carefully makes him want to explain. "My parents died when I was six. May and Ben took me in. Ben died a few years ago, so now it's just May and me."
"That's why you do this, right?" Johnny asks suddenly. "The Spider-Man thing. It's not about the thrill or the recognition, it's about taking care of people the way they took care of you."
Peter stares at him, surprised by the insight. "I... yeah. I guess so."
Johnny leans back against the couch, Peter's expression thoughtful. "My parents died too. I was younger than you, though. Sue basically raised me after that."
"I'm sorry," Peter says, and means it.
Johnny shrugs. "It was a long time ago. But Sue... she gave up a lot to take care of me. College, career opportunities, relationships. She never says anything about it, but I know." He's quiet for a moment. "I guess that's why I do the Fantastic Four thing. Not just for the world-saving, but for her. For the family we built."
They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, and Peter realizes this might be the first real conversation he's ever had with Johnny Storm. Without the usual posturing and antagonism, without the need to prove anything to each other.
"We're really going to have to do this," Peter says finally. "Be each other, I mean. For however long it takes."
"Yeah," Johnny agrees. "We are."
"And the fake dating thing."
"That too."
Peter takes a deep breath, Johnny's lungs expanding with more capacity than his own. "Okay. But we do it right. No half-measures, no slipping up in public. If we're going to lie to everyone we care about, we better be convincing."
Johnny grins, and it looks mischievous on Peter's face. "Does this mean you're ready for acting lessons, babe?"
The word sends an odd little shiver down Peter's borrowed spine. He can feel the temperature spike under his borrowed skin, making the air around them shimmer faintly.
"Don't call me that," he mutters, but his protest lacks conviction.
"What? Babe?" Johnny's grin widens, clearly enjoying Peter's discomfort. "We're going to have to get used to pet names. Couples use them all the time."
"We're not actually a couple."
"No, but we're going to have to play one convincingly." Johnny shifts on the couch, Peter's body language becoming more animated. "Which means we need to practice. Body language, casual touches, the way we look at each other..."
Peter's throat feels tight. "This is insane."
"It’s necessary." Johnny stands up, extending Peter's hand toward him. "Come on. If we're going to this gala thing together, we need to at least look comfortable around each other."
Peter stares at the offered hand—his own hand—and something in his chest does a weird flutter. "I don't think—"
"Trust me," Johnny says, and there's something in his voice that makes Peter look up. "I know what I'm doing when it comes to public appearances."
Peter takes the hand, letting Johnny pull him to his feet. The height difference feels wrong—Peter's used to looking up at people, not down—and Johnny's enhanced strength makes the movement effortless in a way that's disorienting.
"Okay," Johnny says, not letting go of Peter's hand. "Lesson one: proximity. Real couples exist in each other's space. They don't maintain careful distances like they're afraid of contamination."
"I'm not afraid of contamination," Peter protests, but even as he says it, he realizes he's standing a full arm's length away.
Johnny steps closer, closing the gap until Peter can smell his own shampoo in Johnny's hair. "Better. Now, eye contact. You keep looking away like you're embarrassed."
"I am embarrassed."
"Well, stop it. I'm devastatingly handsome." Johnny's grin is pure mischief. "Handsome people don't get embarrassed that easily."
Peter rolls his eyes, but he doesn't step back. "Your ego is showing."
"Good. Confidence is attractive." Johnny reaches up with his free hand—Peter's free hand—and adjusts the collar of Peter's shirt. "See? Simple touches. They look natural."
Peter swallows hard, hyperaware of every point of contact between them. "This feels..."
"Weird?"
"Yeah."
Johnny's expression softens slightly. "It's weird for me too. But we're going to have to sell this, Parker. Which means getting comfortable with being uncomfortable."
Peter nods, trying to ignore the way Johnny's thumb is tracing small circles against his palm. It's such a simple touch, but it's making his skin feel electrified in a way that has nothing to do with spider powers.
"What else?" Peter asks, his voice coming out rougher than intended.
"Well," Johnny says, stepping even closer, "we need to work on how you react when I touch you. Right now you look like you're about to bolt."
"I'm not going to bolt."
"Prove it."
Before Peter can ask what he means, Johnny's hand slides up to cup his face—Peter's face, technically, but it doesn't feel that way anymore—and Peter finds himself leaning into it without thinking.
"There," Johnny murmurs, his voice softer than Peter's ever heard it. "That's better."
Peter's eyes flutter closed for a moment, and when he opens them, Johnny is watching him with an expression he can't read. There's something in his own brown eyes that looks tender.
"Johnny," Peter says quietly.
"Yeah?"
"This is really complicated."
Johnny's thumb brushes across Peter's cheekbone, and Peter has to bite back a sound that would be deeply embarrassing. "I know.”
They stand like that for a moment, close enough that Peter can feel the warmth radiating from his own body. It should be weird—it is weird—but there's something else underneath the strangeness. Something that makes Peter's chest feel tight and his borrowed pulse quicken.
Johnny's phone buzzes against the coffee table, breaking the moment. They spring apart like they've been caught doing something wrong, and Peter immediately misses the contact.
"It's Sue again," Johnny says, checking the screen. "She wants to know if we're experiencing any 'unusual side effects.'"
Peter runs a hand through Johnny's hair, trying to get his racing heart under control. "Define unusual."
"Well, I can hear your upstairs neighbor's TV, I'm pretty sure I can smell what someone three blocks away is cooking for lunch, and every time I move too fast I feel like I'm going to throw up." Johnny pauses. "Oh, and I think I accidentally stuck to your bathroom wall this morning."
"That's all normal," Peter assures him. "What about... anything else?"
Johnny gives him a look that's hard to interpret. "Like what?"
Peter wants to ask if Johnny's feeling the same weird awareness he is, the way every casual touch seems to carry extra weight. But that feels like dangerous territory.
"Never mind," he says instead. "We should probably call her back."
"In a minute." Johnny sets the phone aside and turns back to him. "We weren't finished with the lesson."
"I think we covered enough—"
"Not even close." Johnny steps back into Peter's space, and this time Peter doesn't retreat. "We need to practice walking together. Sitting together. All the little things couples do without thinking about it."
Peter's mouth feels dry. "Okay."
"Good. Now, when we walk, you need to stay close. Maybe let me put my arm around you, or take your hand." Johnny demonstrates, sliding his arm around Peter's waist. "Like this."
The contact sends a jolt through Peter's nervous system. Johnny's hand is warm against his lower back, fingers spread possessively across his spine.
"How's that?" Johnny asks.
"Fine," Peter manages, though his voice sounds strained even to his own ears.
"You sure? You look a little flushed."
Peter definitely feels flushed. Johnny's body temperature runs hot on a normal day, but right now he feels like he might spontaneously combust. "I'm fine."
Johnny studies his face for a moment, then grins. "You know what? I think you're getting the hang of this."
"Getting the hang of what?"
"Looking like you want to be here. With me." Johnny's hand shifts slightly against Peter's back, thumb tracing the edge of his spine through the expensive fabric. "Much more convincing than the deer-in-headlights thing you had going earlier."
Peter wants to protest that he's not doing anything differently, but the words die in his throat when Johnny starts walking, guiding him across the living room. Their bodies move together naturally, Johnny's longer stride matching Peter's borrowed one, and Peter finds himself relaxing into the contact despite himself.
"See?" Johnny murmurs, close enough that his breath tickles Peter's ear. "Not so hard."
Peter shivers, the sensation traveling down his spine in a way that makes him grateful for Johnny's steadying hand. "Not hard at all."
They practice for another hour—sitting together on the couch, sharing space at the kitchen counter, all the casual intimacies that real couples take for granted. By the time they're finished, Peter's skin feels hypersensitive.
"I think that's enough for today," Peter says, stepping away and immediately missing the warmth.
Johnny nods, though he looks reluctant to break the contact too. "Yeah. We should probably figure out the rest of this mess. Like how I'm supposed to be Spider-Man tonight."
"Right. Let's get to work."